Chapter One: The Path of Fury

“The Victoriou—” Gants began, nearly using the vessel’s old name before Akantha shot him a piercing look. “I mean, the Furious Phoenix, is ready for departure on your command, my lady,” he corrected himself quickly.

“Prepare the ship to leave Gambit System,” Akantha said imperiously. “We have been betrayed by certain relatives of my Protector,” her face hardened as she did her best to ignore the fact that she didn’t even know if Jason Montagne was dead or alive, and if alive, whether or not he still qualified as her Protector. “I am now bereft of his presence and they seem so very eager to deny me his protection…so in turn I find myself very eager to have words with these blood relations of his.”

“Yes, My Lady,” Gants said with a gulp before forcing a weak smile on his face.

Akantha twisted her lips grimly, the new scars on her face twinging when the corners of her mouth turned up in the long-unused expression of a smile. “In the name of Men, I am most excited to meet my in-laws. We must prepare for blood.”

“Blood, my lady Akantha?” Gants asked as his smile—never very strong to begin with—wilted even further in the face of her bloodthirsty expression.

Caught up in her own thoughts, she was too engrossed to guard her tongue as much as perhaps she should have. “Yes, blood,” she murmured, imaging her arrival on Capria when she could finally express her dissatisfaction. However they chose to treat their own, these Caprian Royals should have thought more than once about crossing her; she wasn’t nearly as forgiving as her Protector. It was a trait of his which she actually found somewhat endearing…when she wasn’t feeling the urge to beat him over the head for it. “So they think to test us and the depths of our commitment by salting the ground and scorching the very earth around us, do they?”, she asked, ignoring the fact that she was not now, and never again would be with her lost Protector. But his permanent, certain loss was something she refused to contemplate for long.

“Lady Akantha?” Gants asked, intruding on her contemplations before she shooed him away the same as she would an irritating fly.

“They mean to test us, but I shall rise above. They think me weak, unlettered, barbaric and entirely unsuitable to have Jason as my Protector. But I will show them the error of their ways…and I shall have him,” she declared, thinking of this King James she had heard so little about, yet who had sent traitors and betrayers to be-demon them at every turn. First, the Princess-cadet, called Bethany, to stab them in the back. Then, he had sent a ship full of officers and crew to turn on them when Jason’s duplicitous cousin failed in her own coup. “If it is blood and ashes they demand from us, then that is precisely what we shall give them,” she said, only then realizing that she was standing out of the command chair and holding her Bandersnatch before herself, the crystalline engravings on its ancient, eldritch blade glittering in the artificial light of the bridge. All around her was silence, as the crew pretended not to stare.

“Ashes for ashes, blood for blood,” she said, savagely thrusting Bandersnatch back into its sheath. Refusing to feel embarrassed, she turned and after perfunctorily wiping a few of her long, blond hairs from the command chair. When finished, she sat and struck an imperious pose befitting her station.

“Th-the ship is ready for departure,” Gants stuttered, looking decidedly pale and concerned turning to her.

“Then have us cast off,” Akantha instructed sternly. She waited until after they had passed the obligatory farewells and promises to meet their allies again, before turning and stalking off toward the Captain’s ready room. This voyage could not be over quickly enough for her tastes. It was time these star folk were reminded that their technology did not make them gods, and that their treatment of a Hold Mistress of Tracto had been unacceptable.

Chapter Two: A Plan of Vengeance

“I have summoned you here because each of you has knowledge which will be critical in the upcoming campaign,” Akantha stated, sweeping the table with her steely, blue-eyed gaze.

One by one, the men around the table met her eyes. Gants was the new First Officer, who she felt certain would run her ship much more loyally than that snake who had run her Protector’s Battleship. Chief of the Gun Deck Lesner was new to his job as well, but held an obvious fire in his belly. There was also an older looking man with a bristly white and grey mustachios, called First Lieutenant Fornier Gable, who was currently running Engineering. He instilled decidedly less confidence in his ability than the Wizard Spalding, but such could no longer be helped. Two of her fellow Tracto-ans were also present: the Captains Darius, and Atticus, of her Lancer Command.

These two Captains—while neither was the equal of the now deceased Hansel Suffic—were both proven warriors of her home world. Even if Atticus was over enthusiastic for battle at times, and Darius’ lineage and Lyconese background made him instantly suspicious, they had each earned a place at her table through deeds she had witnessed firsthand, as had every other person present.

‘Never trust a Lyconese’ had been a saying to live by back in her home polis of Argos, and even though she was now Hold Mistress of Messene—a new, and independent, daughter polis allied to Argos—a life time of suspicion was hard to put aside. But all daughters must grow up and make decisions for themselves which do not rely on the path of their mother, and it was perhaps time to put her family’s natural distrust of the Lyconese aside. Captain Darius has proven himself several times over during the storming of the Omicron, she reminded herself.

“Campaign, Mistress?” Atticus asked, looking surprised as growing eagerness dawned on his face. This was a man whose eagerness for battle showed like a full moon on a clear night, and Akantha felt a small measure of satisfaction at the sight of it.

“Whatever else did you think we were here for if not a campaign?” she asked in a prim voice, for effect, not because she expected her war-councilors to be mind-readers.

The faces around the table took on an uncomfortable look, and it was Captain Darius who was the first to break the ice.

“I, for one, was expecting something more along the lines of a raid, Hold Mistress,” he said, dropping his eyes in deference, although his words and posture belied his humility.

“A raid,” she said in a reproving voice, unable to keep a disgusted frown off her face, “you think my vengeance would be satisfied with a mere spoiling attack?”

“My Lady-Captain,” exclaimed Lieutenant Gable of Engineering, his voice filled with shock, “I thought you meant to speak with the King and demand redress…you can’t mean to attack or invade Capria!”

“The blood of our fallen warriors and crew, Tracto-an and Starborn alike, demand it,” she snarled in a growing voice. “They come to me in the night and call out for vengeance and I will not deny them their due. This starts with King James but it does not end there!”

Lieutenant Gable stared at her in disbelief and dawning horror, while Atticus pulled out a dagger and rapped the pommel firmly on surface of the table in a show of support. Captain Darius slowly, almost reluctantly, followed his fellow Captain’s example.

“We’re with you, Hold Mistress,” Atticus said with shinning eyes while Darius nodded beside him.

“What are you talking about,? Gable cried his grey mustachios bristling. “We can’t attack Capria itself; it’s not only morally wrong but…we’d all be killed!”

Akantha drew herself up severely and gave him her most disapproving look. “You cannot, perhaps,” she said, scorn dripping from her at such a craven attitude. For a split second she wished she had been able to follow more of the model of her fallen Protector during his council meetings. If she had brought in more of the bridge crew like he had usually done, more of her councilors would have supported her. Then again, she had no desire to spend another minute more than was absolutely necessary with her accursed Life Guard.

“Calm yourself, man,” Chief Gunner Lesner cut in, sending a sharp look towards the Engineer, “and let the Lady tell us her plan.”

“We can’t possibly—” First Lieutenant Gable started.

“This isn’t a Caprian ship, and unlike the Clover it never was,” Lesner snapped. “This here’s a Confederation outfit on a Confederation ship. A lot of good men may have died for King James but it wasn’t because they chose to; it’s because he stabbed them and us right in the back! So sit down, shut up, and let the Lady tell us her plan before you go all leaping to the defense of a sovereign who tried to have us killed!”

Gants nodded in support of the Chief Gunner, his head bobbing up and down almost comically, and the Chief Engineer stared around the room looking for support. Clearly finding none, he reluctantly sat back down.

Akantha nodded with approval at the Chief Gunner. “The Assembly has attacked us, the Parliament has attacked us, and King James first betrayed and then attacked us via his minions and hoplite marines,” Akantha said with a decisive nod. “We shall deal with each of them in due course.”

She drew in a deep breath as she fought to maintain her composure with the rising fury she felt at recounting the offenses they had endured at the hand of this would-be King.

“Parliament and this so-called King—for, to me he is naught but a backstabber and a betrayer of kin—are located together, with their power consolidated in one place,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “The Assembly is more spread out, more powerful, and in any case it can wait. What I propose is to send a message to both King and Parliament which they will not soon forget! What they have sent against us, we will return tenfold.”

“What exactly are we talking about, milady?” Lesner asked, his brow lowering seriously.

“How powerful are your lasers, Chief Gunner?” Akantha demanded, turning the question back upon him.

“What do you mean?” Lesner asked cautiously. “Do you mean how much energy do they consume? Their power relative to the Lucky Clover? Or…” he trailed off.

“I have seen the damage such turbo-lasers have done outside of Captain Darius’ home polis of Lyconesia,” Akantha said, a fire kindling in her eyes. “These cravens who call themselves leaders of men on your old world, they think they can sit back safe and sound in their fortresses and places of power while they send traitorous minions to attack us. They place destructive devices which would kill everyone on our space citadels in an instant, which only the sacrifice of a good man,” she paused, choking up at the thought of the finest Starborn warrior she had come to know, “nay, a great man; a leader of Warriors whose name is, was, and forever will be Hansel Suffic. His sacrifice—his death—bought each and every one of our lives, and I will not allow that sacrifice to go unsupported.”

She spun around to face the Engineering Lieutenant, feeling her eyes begin to burn with unbridled anger, “They think to slay us in job lots, as if we were vermin! Without care or concern they even attacked their own kinsman, a Prince of the Caprian Realm, Governor of Planetary Body Harpoon, Confederation Admiral, and most importantly, my Protector. You all ask what I would do? I would do thus,” she said with icy fury as she felt the scarred lines running down her face begin to burn, “we shall find them. We shall attack them where they live. We shall scorch the earth behind us, leaving nothing but ashes in our wake!”

There was a moment of silence so profound one could have heard a pin drop. Then Gants fell forward, his arms thumping on the table for support. “But Lady Akantha…I have family on that planet,” he begged.

Akantha’s mouth made a thin line and her head swiveled toward him, as every eye turned toward the current First Officer and Head of the Armory.

Gants gulped and turned white, but his eyes remained locked with her own, “Don’t orbitally bombard my home world!”

Akantha drew back and gave him a severe look. “Because you asked,” she began, and despite her outward appearance she was somewhat taken aback by the truly desperate look he now wore, “and because my Protector might not approve, assuming he survives, I will refrain from wholesale attack upon the Caprian Citizenry,” she continued. She imagined Jason’s response, if he yet lived, as she swept the table with slitted eyes before adding, “We can always come back and finish the job later.”

Upon reflection, asking these men to attack their own kinfolk in response to the betrayal of their former leaders might be going a bit too far. It was not that she did not possess ‘the right’ to do so, but more that it would not ‘be right’. She knew that she would need to consider the matter further.

The breath whooshed out of the Chief Gunner and, although Gants still looked worried, Akantha could tell that both of them were very much relieved. Yes, she decided reluctantly, some moderation is called for. Then her gaze sharpened, since even though there was only so much she could ask from these men, there was also only so much they could ask of her in turn. She would have her vengeance!

“So you plan to settle for only attacking Parliament and the King?” Gable goggled at her. “Do you have any idea what you’re asking?”

“Be glad that I am willing to settle for as little as I am,” Akantha said sharply.

“Ignoring the fact that you just don’t go around attacking planetary governments—which is the literal definition of insanity,” the Engineering Officer continued, ignoring her rebuke, “I repeat, again: do you have any idea just what kind of task you’re proposing to undertake?”

“Enlighten us, then,” Akantha urged icily. She had taken a dislike to this cowardly little man…perhaps if she gave him enough proverbial rope, she could then hang him with it.

“Defensive installations that make Tracto’s pair of orbital turrets look like children’s toys, orbital fortresses, plus let’s not forget an entire System Defense Fleet! Not to mention planetary fortifications and tens of thousands of ground forces and thousands of suits of power armor and armored hover craft. I could go on and on,” Gable pounded the table, “and that doesn’t even mention the giant banks of sensor arrays and satellites sweeping the system for raiders, pirates or distressed ships, as well as the dozens of intra-system and inter-system civilian traffic. So even with this ship’s new stealth features, they’re sure to see us coming from so far out, there’s no chance we can…” he trailed off in dismay.

“What I am hearing is that we are heavily outnumbered and facing many obstacles,” Akantha said coldly.

“Obstacles?!” Lieutenant Gable looked like he was about to have a heart attack.

Chief Lesner cleared his throat, causing Akantha and the rest of the table to turn and face at him. Then, to the Hold Mistress’s irritation, the Engineering Lieutenant looked relieved and grateful.

“I think what the Engineering Lieutenant is trying to say is that what you propose is a daunting task, with inadequate forces, ships and materials,” Lesner said seriously. “This is something that most men wouldn’t even consider.

“Exactly!” Gable exclaimed as though it was obvious.

“Is that so, Chief Gunner?” Akantha said with icy precision, allowing her derision at these words to show.

Lesner gave a serious nod and stared down at the table for a long moment before looking back at her and giving a short nod. “That’s why if we’re really going to do this, it’s going to require a lot of very careful planning,” he added, “we can’t just rush into this thing.”

Akantha smiled.

“Unbelievable!” Gable blurted in dismay, but after looking at Akantha and the other men around the table, he put his head in his hands and groaned.

“Tell me more,” said Akantha, visions of a Hold Mistress’s Vengeance upon those who had wronged her dancing through her head.

“Well, you’re not exactly going to like hearing this, milady,” Lesner said, causing Akantha’s face to make a small moue of displeasure and Officer Gable to make an inarticulate sound before looking up into her disapproving gaze and rapidly falling silent again.

“Feel free to speak bluntly,” Akantha said after a moment, “I might not like what I hear it but so long as the end result is that we are still standing, honor has been satisfied, and our enemies are laid low, then I am willing to listen with an open ear and mind.”

Lesner produced a tight smile.

Chapter Three: The Nuts and Bolts

“First off,” Warrant Lesner said, raising a finger emphatically and holding a deliberate pause. “If we’re going to do this and do it right—and by that, I mean ‘not rush in and get our fool heads shot off’—then we’re going to have to play this smart. That means cautious, and it means,” he speared Akantha with a gaze that started out slightly unsure but quickly hardened to the point of a spear, “that it’s going to take longer—a lot longer—than you’re going to care for.”

Akantha frowned. “You are correct,” she said bluntly, “I dislike this. But go on.”

“Plus, all we’ve got is this ship,” Lesner slapped the conference room desk of their converted Imperial Strike Cruiser for emphasis, “and a pair of Sundered corvettes…with accompanying gunships, of course.”

“I think you are forgetting we have several companies of Lancers,” Akantha corrected him with narrowed eyes.

“And a reinforced battalion of Lancers,” Lesner ducked his head in acknowledgement before making to continue but Gants interrupted before he could get another word out.

“Speaking of the Sundered,” the young, new minted First Officer said with rising excitement, “I’m sure they’ve got some soldiers too.” Gants brow furrowed, “Say…why aren’t they here? Isn’t that Glue in charge of their lot?”

“This is a meeting of our trusted Advisors and ship officers,” Akantha replied, her gaze as she swept the table turning as severe as uncut granite the moment her eyes fell upon the morose looking Chief Engineer. She continued after an extended pause that let the man feel the weight of her disregard, “As we are about to ‘point transfer,’ I felt it imprudent to summon Vassal Glue of the newly created Sundered Hold Minor until after the jump to the next star system. Rest assured, however, that he shall be kept apprised of any developments by his Liege-Lady…and most likely find inclusion in our next strategy session.”

Looking at the Engineer, she silently decided that there was at least one member of the current group who would not be returning to the next session—unless absolutely necessary.

“Including the pira—,” Lesner flushed and cleared his throat, “I mean, your latest Vassal,” he cleared his throat again before putting aside his embarrassment, “anyway…the uplift and his people are fighters. And being former…well, anyway, their skills with sneaking around and sneaking into systems might come in very useful for us.”

Akantha’s face hardened and the two Tracto-an Captains grunted.

“Sneaking around the SDF and fixed defenses are the only way I see us being able to accomplish our mission,” Lesner said apologetically. “If we try going in straight up, we’ll get our heads handed to us for sure. We might all die gloriously but, make no mistake, we’ll die with our mission unaccomplished.”

“Sneaking around the entire SDF and the Orbital Defenses,” Gable cried, “you’d help plan an attack on your own provincial government?”

Akantha slapped the table before Lesner had a chance to speak and stood until she was looming over the brown-skinned engineer.

“Another craven word from you will cost you your tongue,” she snapped.

“My Lady,” the Engineer said, starting to stand from his chair.

“Sit down,” Captain Atticus commanded, reaching gripping the Engineer’s shoulder and forcing him back into his seat, “the Mistress did not give you leave to stand.”

“You were on the Settlership which my Jason saved from total destruction, Mr. Gable,” Akantha said furiously. “And I distinctly remember when you personally swore to me your true loyalty to your new Hold and your new Mistress. Now, as Mister Gants has most correctly reminded me, many of my new subjects have family on Capria. As such, I have ruled out a general attack upon your world but make no mistake,” she flared, her eyes cutting to the core of the Caprian Engineer before her, “my consideration should not imply weakness. And your oath is to Hold Messene, not the Queendom of Capria!”

“Colonies do not attack Core Worlds, Lady Akantha,” Gable protested hotly, “when I gave my oath, I never thought you’d ask me to attack my home. Please be reasonable! I’ll defend you and this ship and my shipmates with my dying breath—even against King and Parliament—but to attack my home world? No one can ask that! I acquired dual citizenship on Tracto, but I did not renounce my Caprian heritage!”

“I am Messene; an attack on my person is an attack on Messene,” the Hold Mistress said coldly. “The officers and crew of this ship, including yourself, have already been attacked by Capria. The only way to defend ourselves is to take the battle to our attackers and force them to cease! I will remind you that Oaths bind two ways, Mr. Gable, and for a polis to turn on its own, without just cause, is to sever any ties which bind a warrior to that polis. As such, my plan is not only reasonable—honor demands it. So I ask you one last time, fulfill your oath, First Lieutenant!”

“My Lady, I cannot attack my home world,” Gable pleaded, sweat beading on his forehead as he stood firm.

Akantha’s face twisted and her fist slammed down on the table, causing tea cups and coffee mugs to shake and rattle.

“Capria will no longer have you; that means Tracto is your home world!” she snarled as she clenched her firsts on the table. Lifting her gaze, she transferred her angry eyes over to her Lancers, “Remove this oathbreaker to the brig and fork his tongue, Captain Atticus,” she said furiously, “that all may know the wages of oathbreaking! Remove him from my sight. I swear that if this man stays underneath my eyes another minute I cannot promise his head will remain attached to his body.”

Atticus stood up with enough force to send his chair knocking against the wall behind him.

“Come on, you,” the Lancer growled, his heavy hands falling on the Engineer’s shoulders.

Mouth opening and closing with disbelief, the white and iron grey, salt and pepper mustachioed Engineer barely resisted as he was hauled out of the room.

No one dared speak for several minutes as the furious, young, Hold Mistress paced back and forth with high emotion. “Well,” she sat down with a thump, “where were we?”

There was another pause and then Lesner leaned forward and cleared his throat. “My Lady, I believe we were on the subject of patience,” he said politely, yet firmly.

Akantha looked over at him, her expression suddenly flatly. “Indeed,” she allowed simply, yet he remained there looking back at her unflinchingly, prompting her to gesture that he should continue.

“Right,” he said, before repeating, “right. Well, Gab—the engineer, was right, at least as far as it goes,” he stammered, ignoring the suddenly severe look she gave him, “charging in and taking on the entire SDF and fixed defenses all at the same time’s a fool’s gambit. On the other hand…” he drew the last word out.

“Yes?” she asked flatly, giving in and asking the question as she felt her collar begin to warm.

“What we need here is a little base trickery and deception!” Laurent declared.

It took the Hold Mistress half a second to understand what the man was saying. “Treachery and deceit!” Akantha exclaimed, staring at the Chief Gunner in surprise.

“Hey, that could really work!” Gants said enthusiastically. “If we can just draw off the SDF away from Capria and get our Lancers where they need to go before they know what’s going on, a lot less people will get hurt or…even die,” he finished on a slightly uncharacteristic, downbeat note.

Akantha paused in contemplation, as she also wished for as few of their people to die while sending as many of their enemies straight to the furnace of Men where the gods of data could sort them out.

“The Code allows for turning the weapons of an enemy, ones she has already used on you, back upon her even if such an action would otherwise be against the Code of Men,” she slowly considered. These foes had already used assassination, betrayal, and openly lied, proclaiming everyone was on the same side just long enough to plant a dagger in their back. All of this and more had been perpetrated upon them by King James and his infernal Parliament of Capria. She was unwilling to sink to that particular level…yet.

The remaining members of her advisory council looked at her expectantly and in a few cases, like her First Officer, hopefully. She gave a slow nod and then in a smooth motion, pulled out one of the Starborn’s magical vibro-daggers and slammed it point-first into the duralloy table.

“Tell me more,” she commanded, leaning forward intently.

Chapter Four: Plans in Frustration

“I dislike all this sneaking around and hiding from our foes as though we are afraid,” Akantha snapped.

“We’re just making use of…” Gants paused and then his face brightened, “the cover and terrain of space.”

“As if we have to sneak around the bushes for fear of getting caught,” Akantha quipped angrily.

“Oh no, it’s nothing like that; we’re actually staying quite still and not moving at all,” Gants hastened to assure her. “When Chief Engineer Spalding put a girdle on the Furious Phoenix, he modified her sensor profile. She’s very hard to see from long and even medium range if the she’s not moving!”

Akantha sniffed. “So, now we’re behind the bushes waiting for our as yet unidentified tryst to arrive,” she said scornfully.

“We’ll know her when we see her,” Gants hastened to assure the Hold Mistress.

“Wonderful,” Akantha struggled to keep her irritation under control.

“I know,” Gants beamed, “isn’t it great?”

Akantha stared at the young man she had appointed her First Officer, and as soon as he glanced away she shook her head. She had found that getting angry with the young man was too much like beating a helpless, tail-wagging puppy. It just was not worth the guilty feelings later on. Defeating those incapable of fighting back held no appeal to her.

“This smacks too much of road banditry,” she finally grumped, after several minutes of watching another fast courier ship sit on the edge of the star system’s hyper barrier and charge its engine for a fast hyper jump.

Gants looked up at her curiously. “It’s not like we’re going to keep the ship for ourselves, my lady,” he reminded her, “that’s why we’ve got such a specific target profile.”

“This is the third courier this week!” Akantha flared. “How many more weeks must we wait out here in the dark, skulking around as if we are afraid to face our enemies, until this plan can be put into action?”

“A week…or,” he hastened to add as soon as her flat look settled on him, “it could even be three. Making sure there’s no collateral damage isn’t a bad thing, Lady Akantha.

“I pray you are right,” she bit out, throttling the thirst for vengeance burning in her belly in favor of the more ‘prudent’ course of action.

“It’ll just take some time to get the right pieces in place,” he said soothingly, “after that, things will be moving much faster. You’ll see.”

Akantha stared at him reprovingly but allowed herself to be diverted, turning back to glare at the main screen as the Courier engaged its hyper drive and point transferred out of the system.

Her fists clenched as sensors once again registered an empty system, and Akantha stood abruptly.

“I am going to practice my sword work,” she said stiffly and then turned to stalk off the bridge. “Call me if anything ‘interesting’ happens,” she tossed over her shoulder.

She honestly could not understand how her Protector sat in a command chair and stared at screens for hour after hour, and her heart clenched at this reminder of her loss.

But her face remained a stony mask as she swept out of the bridge.

Chapter Five: An Unexpected Surprise

“Contact!” cried a Sensor Operator on the bridge of the Furious Phoenix.

Akantha’s head snapped around.

“What have we got, Sensors?” Gants bounced forward in his seat, his voice full of excitement. His mood temporarily distracted Akantha, as such comportment was usually more suited to a stripling child than a man full grown.

“Just a second, Sir,” the Operator said as Isis came to stand over his shoulder.

“I’ll have the answer shortly, Mistress,” Isis informed her.

Turning her gaze away from Isis, as if the answer did not interest her, Akantha’s face became a frozen mask. Her honor still smarted after the actions of her honor-impoverished Life Guards, and she would rather chew glass than have them constantly surrounding her. This consideration colored her current interactions with the Sensor Officer more than they should have, but for the moment all parties were stuck with it. It was all she could do to keep from lashing out with her every frustration upon the hapless, honor-impoverished, Life Guard in command of the Sensor Section. If only those women had not stopped her from saving…

She pulled herself up short with a silent reminder that the true culprits here were on Capria. It did little to ameliorate her feelings toward her Guard, but it had to be remembered.

“She’s a freighter, First Officer,” the Sensor Operator said excitedly.

“Excellent news, Sensors,” Gants declared, sounding far too upbeat for Akantha’s current mood. But she was a leader and had to act as such, which meant refraining from spreading her currently foul attitude to her hard working subordinates, “Notify me as soon as you have a positive ident.”

“Will do, Sir,” nodded the Sensor Operator.

“The same goes for you, Comm.,” Gants continued, turning to the Communications Section with a serious expression on his face.

“Of course, First Officer,” said a buck-toothed young Starborn.

Several tense minutes passed, as Sensors and Comm’s hunched over their consoles, sifting through every piece of available information.

“She’s Caprian, Sir!” exclaimed the Com-Tech.

Akantha’s head whipped around. “Are you sure of that?” she demanded.

“Yes, my lady,” the Com-Tech grinned, exposing his buck teeth for all to see.

A hungry smile crossed her face.

“Three weeks we have been stuck in this empty crossroads of system,” she said, feeling a flare of excitement.

“Records indicate this is one of the systems that independent freighter companies tend to send their freighters through. As traffic has shown, the records were right,” Gants reminded.

“Yes, but not a single, solitary Caprian Freighter has entered our clutches until now,” Akantha reminded him coldly, but even three weeks of suffering through inactivity were unable to ruin her elevated mood, and she gripped the hilt of her Bandersnatch tightly.

“Now, if only she’s a Royal or Parliamentary ship,” Akantha muttered, squeezing the hilt of her sword.

The bridge filled with quiet anticipation as they waited for the merchant ship’s beacon to transmit its name and registry.

Akantha scowled at the ship as the old freighter hesitated and malingered for the better part of fifteen minutes without turning on its Confederated Empire required identification transmitter.

“Why are we only getting a basic identity, First Officer?” Akantha demanded.

“Uh…” Gants hesitated his mouth open but no words coming out. She gave him a sharp look, and his mouth snapped shut. “Right away, Lady Akantha,” he said, jerking in his chair as if stung. Lowering his head quickly, Gants activated his data slate and began scrolling through screens.

“Here it is now, Hold Mistress,” Hecate said, standing literally over the shoulder of the Com-Tech.

Akantha smiled and then frowned. “Yes, Hecate,” she asked coolly. But it wasn’t Hecate that answered, it was the buck-toothed com-tech.

“She’s private registry, Hold Mistress,” the Promethean heritage Com-Tech reported with a sigh.

The disappointment in his voice was nothing next to the rage which filled Akantha’s.

“Curse of Men,” she growled, leaning back in her command chair and waving away a sympathetic look from her First Officer.

“We could always…” Gants trailed off splaying his hands.

“No,” Akantha said tightly, “it was proposed to limit this feud to those responsible—to Parliament and the traitorous Royalty of Capria. Measure for measure, blood for blood, they will be punished. But it was I who agreed to limit our vengeance, leaving the common folk of your first world as free from harm as possible for a people to be when their leaders are attacked. I agreed,” she reemphasized, standing until she loomed over her First Officer, “no one forced me. The options were presented and I decided our course. Me. No other,” she drew a deep breath, “and I am a woman of my word. We will stay our hand until a Royal or Parliamentary supply ship arrives.”

With finality, she sat back down in her chair.

The bridge temporarily stilled during her speech, and then everyone turned back to their tasks. The suppressed excitement of just a few minutes earlier was now completely gone.

Talk was muted as Akantha became lost in her memories, dreams of what she would do when this purgatory of waiting was finally over and done with.

“We have the full registry now, milady,” the Com-Tech reported.

Akantha irritably waved him off. “Let the First Officer deal with it. That is his function,” she said coldly. She had no interest in taunting herself with thoughts of what she could no longer do. She had agreed to attempt not to involve those who had no part or stake in this conflict, and wanted no temptation to break her word placed in front of her.

“Hold Mistress,” Gants said in acknowledgement of his orders.

Akantha nodded and sent him back to his duty. She merely stared glumly at the freighter on the main screen. It was so temptingly close, and yet absolutely outside of her reach.

She heard as Gants started muttering under his breath. She decided it was a habit she would need to break him of, sooner or later.

“The…” Gants started humming under his breath, “…Harpoon Development Company…”

She was just about ready to rebuke him when what he had just said caught her attention. “What?” she asked in surprise.

Gants looked up guiltily. “I’m sorry Lady Akantha,” he said flushing with embarrassment, “was I talking aloud?”

“You just said something,” Akantha said imperiously.

“I apologize,” he said, ducking his head in shame.

“No, no, not that,” she said waving away his excuses like irritating fly insects, “you were muttering something under your breath. What was it you said?” Gants blinked and then surreptitiously looked back down at his data-slate. After a momentary pause he met her eyes hesitantly.

Akantha, mirroring a move she had seen her Protector use to great effect, attempted to raise a single eyebrow. Both eyebrows went up, despite her best efforts, but the point seemed to come across well enough as the First Officer immediately started speaking.

“Yes,” he agreed with a bob of his head, “I was just reading the ship’s registry. It belongs to a private Caprian company—completely outside our operational orders,” he hastened to assure her and then glanced back down at his screen. “It belongs to the, uh…Harpoon Development Company, I think it says,” his fingers flashed through several screens. “Ah, here it is,” he said looking up at her his brow furrowed quizzically and then raised the data slate for her perusal.

“Put that away,” she instructed as he made to put the screen far too close to her face for her liking. As soon as Gants had removed it, she placed both her hands on the arms of her chair and stood up.

“Lady?” Gants sounded concerned.

“Check and determine where exactly the Harpoon Development Company is based,” she instructed, feeling a twinge of hope—that ravenous, deceptive beast—rear its ugly head.

“It’s based out of Capria,” Gants said, looking confused.

“Where exactly within Capria,” Akantha demanded, holding onto her temper with both hands.

Gants turned back to his screen and after a few taps, looked back at her. “It says here the Company is licensed out of the Caprian government, and has been based on the Planetary Body of Harpoon for the past three years,” he reported, this time giving her a questioning look.

“The Planetary Body of Harpoon,” Akantha said with a feeling of deep satisfaction.

“My Lady, it belongs to a private company, the kind we agreed to—” Gants said quickly.

“We agreed to leave out uninvolved private citizens,” Akantha cut him off a hungry smile on her face. “However, my Protector was—” this time she stopped herself and silently cursed her error, “rather, he is the Governor of Planetary Body Harpoon.”

Gants looked alarmed.

“He also told me exactly how inhospitable Harpoon is,” she said, speaking over the top of him, “which is why I am certain that only the closest of clients or vassals would be willing to follow him into such exile! Such persons are, of course, by default, included in our cause. If they are from Harpoon then they are already involved!”

“Lady,” Gants eyes bulged, “I’m not sure that’s a fair read on the situation.”

Akantha frowned down at him. “It is true that my Protector,” she paused and then added significantly, “your Admiral, never mentioned these people, nor made them known to me…” Then she tossed it off as immaterial, “Whatever the particular circumstances, if they have been on Harpoon for three years, then logic dictates they are as far from uninvolved as can be.”

Gants looked queasy, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.

“Understand, First Officer Gants,” Akantha said kindly, “it is not only that I am eager to arrive on Capria, but also the fact that in his absence the care of any clients or vassals of my Protector falls to me. I would be doing less than my duty if I simply ignored this ship.”

“Saint Murphy help us,” Gants murmured under his breath.

Akantha looked at him sharply. “Prepare the ship for a micro-jump, Mr. Gants,” she said stiffly.

Gants started but quickly nodded. “Right away, your Ladyship,” he said, still looking worried.

While the beleaguered First Officer issued the appropriate orders, she stared at the screen and squeezed the hilt of her sword. Soon this extended exile in the back end of the river of stars would be done and over with. She could not wait to take the next step toward her vengeance!

Then she noticed Gants speaking agitatedly with the Navigator over on the other side of the bridge. Disliking the tone of their exchange, she stood and strode over.

“What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?” she asked coolly, using an honorific which the Starborn seemed to respond well to.

“Not a problem, Lady Akantha,” Gants hastened to assure her.

She gave him a flat look before switching her gaze over to the Navigator and lifted her brows quizzically.

The former pirate—who was now working off his five year sentence of slavery for attacking her, by working as the ship’s navigator—bobbed his head respectfully.

“The merchie caught us in the beginning of our transfer cycle,” he stated.

“Meaning what, exactly?” Akantha demanded and then added, “I assume a ‘merchie’, whatever that is, refers to the Freighter,” she pointed at the other ship on the main screen for emphasis.

“Yes, Hold Mistress Akantha, the freighter,” said the former pirate and current war-slave. He then took a breath and under Gants disapproving scowl hunched his shoulders and added, “I’m not sure if we’ll be able to charge up our transfer field for a micro-hyper jump across the system before they reach their PNR.” “PNR?” Akantha asked shortly, not liking all these words she was unfamiliar with.

“Don’t worry, Lady Akantha,” Gants said agitatedly, “I’ve looked at the numbers; we’ll get there before they jump out.”

“PNR?!” she demanded again, this time raising her voice.

“Point of No Return,” the slave-Navigator explained, “as I’ve been trying to explain to the First Officer, we’ll get there before the freighter point transfers out of the system, unless we snaggle on a hiccough of some sort. But if we’re to take her a-prize for your fleet then we have to get her before she reaches 80% of the energy needed for hyperspace. After reaching the critical 80% threshold, the jump field forms; after that, they couldn’t stop it if they wanted to—not unless they were prepared to destroy their main dish and hyper engines.”

“What can be done?” Akantha asked, her eyes narrowing as visions of their first—and so far, only—prey danced out of their reach, “to increase our chances.”

“I ran the numbers—” Gants started, but under the weight of Akantha’s gaze he promptly fell silent.

“I rely on this man,” Akantha told the war-slave as she placed a hand on Gants shoulder for emphasis.

“Of course,” the Navigator cringed back into his seat.

“Rest assured, I will also have someone else recheck your figures,” she added.

“Yes, Hold Mistress,” the Navigator said ducking his head.

“However,” Akantha said imperiously, “assuming you are right and the timing is as tight as you claim, what can we do to better our chances?” The Navigator looked up at her and blinked, obviously taken aback. Akantha had seen this sort of reaction before; this was a man who was used to receiving the rod by way of encouragement—so much so that he seemed to have forgotten that the carrot even existed.

“I have a few ideas, your Hold Mistress-ship,” he told her, his eyes still wide with surprise.

“Excellent,” she said with real relish.

“I’ll do my best,” the Navigating slave said fervently.

“Then you can ‘carry on’, I believe is how they say it,” she paused and waited until he had looked back down at his console before adding, “oh, and assuming you are not lying of course. Should we get there in time to capture her, I will take six months off your sentence as a reward.”

“Thanks!” the Navigator gushed, then looked up at her as if trying to determine if she was trying to trick him somehow.

Not caring for the suspicious look, and fairly sure from the way the former pirate’s shoulders were hunched, that the man was even now thinking this offer had to be too good to be true, Akantha deliberately hardened her voice and added, “Of course, if you fail me…” she let her voice trail off menacingly.

“I’ll get us there,” the Navigator said, a hint of fear now in his voice. But his shoulders straightened and he quickly seemed to forget her as he started working his console.

Akantha gave a nod she knew he would not see, but others around the bridge would, and then turned on her heel. Returning to the command chair, she hid a sigh. These pirates were like a cross between a rebellious helot and an abused child. She had to put some iron into her dealings with them or they would distrust anything she said, think her weak, and then try to run away—or plunge a dagger in her back when she wasn’t looking.

Sitting back down in her chair, she sniffed. As always, Men had been right when it placed women in charge of such things. As she had recently seen, if a man was left holding the reins of power, you either ended up with honor-less swine like the backstabbing King James running things, or they devolved into an organization of road bandits like the former pirates of Omicron, that savaged everything around and even each other.

If possible, the natural order of things needed to be restored out here amongst the stars. As far as she could see, everyone would be better off.

Chapter Six: Laying down the Law

“Point Emergence!” declared the Navigator.

“Extending engines outside of inertial sump; engaging secondaries at 25%,” reported the Helmsman, another slave taken from the battle for the Omicron.

“Steady on, Bridge; and let’s try to follow standard sump slide protocol, Strider,” Gants said reprovingly to the ship’s Helmsman.

“Aye, aye, Sar,” the former Captain of the Broken Maiden said mockingly.

From her seat in the command chair, Akantha calmly exposed a full foot of dark, razor-sharp, crystalline metal. The quiet, scraping sound Bandersnatch made as it slowly slid out of its scabbard carried throughout the bridge.

“I mean, ‘Aye, Aye, First Officer’,” Strider repeated in a rush, this time sounding almost professional—as well as more than a little fearful for his life.

“We’ve got them on our scans,” Isis said triumphantly from the Sensor section.

Akantha looked up at the screen and saw nothing displayed but the Phoenix and the system’s sun.

“Well?” she asked evenly.

“Just a second, Mistress,” Isis said, coloring slightly. A few moments later the Freighter appeared on the screen.

“Have they formed their hyper field?” Akantha asked, leaning forward in her seat hungrily.

“Not yet,” Isis grinned a few second later.

“My Lady, we should ask for their surrender,” Gants recommended eagerly.

“Hecate,” Akantha instructed after a brief consideration, “open a channel on the long talker.”

“Yes, Lady,” she bobbed her head before turning to the buck-toothed Promethean. A minute later the bridge chimed and the main screen went blank.

“Channel open, Lady Akantha,” Hecate reported, “we are now speaking to them; whether they have closed their ears we cannot say.”

Akantha stood up holding her Bandersnatch at her side with one hand. “This is the Hold Mistress of Messene,” she said evenly, “in the name of the Governor of Harpoon, you are to deactivate your hyper engines, heave to,” the last two words felt strange on her tongue, but she knew this was what they said in these sorts of situations, “and prepare for boarding.”

There was a pause of over fifteen seconds.

“We’re receiving a transmission now, Lady Akantha,” reported the Com-Tech.

“Put it on our screen,” Akantha ordered, and seconds later a balding man with a potbelly appeared.

“What kind of nonsense is this?” the balding man scoffed. “Harpoon has no jurisdiction in interstellar space!”

“As clients of Governor Jason Montagne, it is my duty to place you under our protection,” Akantha snapped irritably.

The bald man looked at her and blinked. “Oh, that’s rich,” he said as a smile crept across his face. He gave her a searching look which caused Akantha’s mouth to tighten, and the next thing she knew he threw his head back and roared with laughter. “You actually expect me to believe that you’re not pirates. Really? That, my dear, is unbelievable.”

Despite saying how unbelievable he found it, he looked anything but unbelieving—and far too smug by half, to Akantha’s eye.

“You would dare call me a road bandit,” she could feel her ears turning red with rage. “Listen up, wretch,” Akantha said with a bite to her voice as she drew her sword and thrust the tip toward his image menacingly, “you can either join us under the auspice of your Lord Governor—a man who is benevolent to a fault—or I can seize your ship in the name of Tracto and Messene!”

The bald man’s mouth dropped open at the force of her words and Akantha glared at him, finding herself almost wanting him to defy her.

“Choose now, you ungrateful Cur,” she snapped.

The balding man gulped and then turned to someone off screen. “It’s not just a Cutter, Captain; it’s a real warship!” could be heard faintly over the pickup.

“Turn off the hyperdrive,” he screamed before turning back to her. “We’re more than happy to take to our life craft and escape pods,” he babbled, “just let us live.”

Akantha bared her teeth at his cowardice, “Despite your Parliament and King’s many acts of war against my Holding, I will do so—but only because of your past service to Harpoon’s Governor. I will also, for the time being, ignore your lack of respect. But rest assured,” she advised, her eyes boring into the little man’s image before her, “I will not be so benevolent a second time.”

“Thank you for sparing us, Captain,” the bald Captain said, sweat breaking out on his fore head. He produced a handkerchief and used it to dab his forehead, “There’s no way we could take on a ship your size. Of course we’ll do whatever you say—just let us live,” he pleaded.

“For now, you may take shelter under the mercy of your Governor; do not attempt to abuse my hospitality again,” she said strictly, ignoring the look of horror that crossed over the Captain’s face.

“The Governor,” the Merchant Captain said faintly, “an act of war…” He gave himself a shake and then looked at her wide eyed as if in realization, “You don’t mean the Prince-cadet do you?”

“Yes, of course,” Akantha said impatiently, “even if your government insists on making war upon my world, your Governor is my husband.” At this, the Captain visibly paled but Akantha pressed on, “I’ve not had a chance to speak with him about any of this yet but if I failed to protect his closest clients, what kind of wife would I be?”

“Oh, space gods,” the Merchant Captain breathed, “please, just take whatever you want. We won’t cause you any problems, I swear! Just let us go after you’re done in this system, I beg of you. Please, a life boat, that’s all we ask.”

Akantha looked at him reprovingly, even as Hecate reported that the Lancer Shuttles were already en route to the merchant ship.

“And leave you stranded on this desert island they call a star system?” Akantha scoffed.

The Captain nodded his head eagerly.

“No,” she stated firmly.

“But—” the Captain started before she cut him off.

“How could I look my Protector in the face and tell him I left his people behind?” Her face hardened decisively, “It is best for everyone that you come with us.”

“Murphy save us all,” the Captain prayed, looking ill.

Akantha shook her head and instructed Hecate to cut the transmission. She had heard all she cared to from this craven freighter Captain. Even the newly-made fork tongue down in Engineering had been more of a man than the piece of bandit bait she had just spoken with.

Starborn were impossible to understand sometimes.

Chapter Seven: Arranging the Pieces

“We need to load as many of our warriors on that Freight Hauler as we can,” Captain Atticus snapped. “We can fight our way out if we’re detected.”

“Lancers against warships is a risky fight,” Captain Darius demurred.

“We’ve done it twice now under the Warlord,” Atticus stuck his chin out bullishly. Then, unable to resist the dig, he added, “Which you would know if only you had been there for the jump that conquered this ship.”

Darius mouth made a tight line, “It’s not cowardice to err on the side of caution.”

“No one has accused you of cowardice, Lyconese,” Atticus stated and then a slow smile crossed his face, “you brought that up yourself.”

“Satisfaction! Just because I had not yet joined the Warlord’s service in time for 1st Easy Haven—” Darius started hotly.

“Enough,” Akantha said sharply, but the two lancers were now standing and shoving their faces together.

“Silences!” Glue shouted, his deep, bass voice rumbling from one side of the room to the other, followed by a thunderous clap as he slammed his hands together.

The table fell silent and all the eyes turned to look at the demon Primarch with the glittering lights in the back of his head.

Akantha’s mouth turned white, but while everyone else was looking at the giant demon man, the Primarch was looking at her. The only one acting appropriately was a Men-cursed Demon!

She gave Glue a nod, as courtesy demanded nothing less, then she bestowed a look on the men around the table.

“Captains,” she said in a quiet, deadly voice.

The two men stiffened and turned toward her.

“I am not used to being spoken over,” she said in a voice that could cut iron. The silence in the room was deafening, and when she knew she had regained some measure of control over the scene, she flatly added, “There will be no duels.”

Captain Darius had the grace to look shame faced but Atticus was still hot. “Hold Mistress,” he began in an overly loud protest.

“I am continuing the tradition of Hansel Suffic,” she said sharply, “and I will not tolerate challenge duels while we are in space.”

Atticus spluttered, “If honor demands—”

Akantha cut him off by slamming her hand on the table. “If honor demands…” she started hotly before cutting herself off, preventing her mouth from saying something she would regret. However, the look on the Captain’s face turned her inner heat into a raging inferno, “If a man’s honor dictates an infraction is so severe that he must defy my edict, rather than wait until we have returned to Tracto, then I will not stop him,” Akantha said her own face turning red with rage. “I will simply execute the survivors of such an engagement.”

“My Lady,” Atticus gaped.

“Instruct your men to restrain themselves until they are free to make whatever fools of themselves they care to, but I will not have our Vengeance impeded,” Akantha snarled. “We have lost too much—sacrificed too much—to allow petty jealousies and spite impede our retribution. Any man who feels he cannot obey my orders is free to depart this citadel!”

“Apologies, Mistress Akantha,” Atticus said quickly, his mouth snapping shut and his entire body stiffening.

“I, as well,” Darius murmured, ducking his head in deference.

“I will not hear another word on this subject, do I make myself clear,” Akantha stated, rather than asked, as she swept the conference table with a flinty gaze.

The Sundered Primarch leaned forward into the growing silence, causing his chair to squeak and squeal alarmingly. Akantha glanced at the oversized creature. Released from the weight of her gaze, the men around the table relaxed fractionally.

“I believe we were on the subject of how many warriors to place on the Freighter,” Akantha said, clearing her throat, “and possibly the crew to run her?” she said doubtfully. “I am uncertain how strong a reed these Harpoon people are going to be.”

Lesner tapped the table with a finger and Akantha switched her eyes over to him. “I’m not sure how many of my boys we can risk putting on her,” said the Chief Gunner, looking troubled.

“You speak of ‘risk’ again?!” Atticus cried, prompting Akantha to draw Bandersnatch.

Atticus quickly transferred his gaze to something apparently very interesting on the table, snapping his mouth shut and refraining from saying anything further.

“Explain,” Akantha said, resting the flat of her sword’s blade on the table.

Lesner glanced down at the sword, which just so happened to now be pointed straight at him, and then looked back up to her face as he took a deep breath.

“It’s just that most of my boys will be in a database somewhere, and when that freighter is inspected, well,”’ he cleared his throat, “could be some red flags might be raised that could queer the deal.”

“Red flags?” Akantha asked flatly.

“You know; most of our boys are either listed as being on the Lucky Clover or are colonists. Someone would have to be pretty stupid not to take one look at our Ident Chips and not ask questions,” Lesner explained.

“And ‘Ident Chip’?” Akantha asked, frustration welling up inside her.

Lesner looked surprised, “Everyone has an identification chip. So that the government can track them,” he explained.

“I have no such chip,” Akantha said coolly.

“Well, you and the Tracto-an’s don’t,” the new Chief Gunner allowed, “but…”

“Then we can’t risk sending most of the crew,” Gants groaned, looking concerned, “why didn’t we think of this before?”

Akantha frowned at them both, not wanting to reveal the full extent of her ignorance as to the importance of this Ident Chip.

“No Tracto-an either,” Glue said.

“Blast it, that’s right, they don’t have chips either,” Gants cried. “And we don’t have any way of forging the chips we’ll need.”

“What are you talking about?” Akantha said, feeling a cold, unfamiliar sensation creep through her belly.

“No Caprians and no Tracto-ans can be on freighter,” Glue stated, “would be discovered; mission fail.”

“Well, if we can’t send our crew or our Lancers, then just how in the name of Men can we sneak through the gates,” Captain Atticus said agitated.

“Why did no one bring this up before?” Akantha asked as calmly as she was able to—which, with the furious fire suddenly ignited inside her at this latest impediment that could turn three weeks of effort into naught, was nowhere near as calm as she wanted.

“No one ask Glue,” the Primarch shrugged, “if you ask, then am answering.”

“We’ll make sure to include you in all future meetings of this sort,” Akantha said tightly.“ But the important thing isn’t placing blame. We need a solution!”

Silence answered her instruction, and Glue leaned back in his chair.

“Answer is simple,” he said eventually. “Do not send Tracto-an or Cap-ri-an,” he rumbled in response.

“Then who are we to send, Demon?” Atticus asked scornfully, “the Sundered? Do you really believe that ‘you people’ sneak past these inspectors where ours cannot.”

“Sending Sundered is fools game,” Glue grunted and then slapped the table with his hand, “No. It must be Prometheans. They are ones we send.”

“Prometheans?” Atticus looked aback.

“Yes,” Akantha asked sharply, “why send the Prometheans?”

Glue smiled, exposing the many large teeth in his mouth before popping his lips.

“Glue learn many things in service to his people,” he said in his deep, growly voice. “To beat Immigration Inspector you must have valid Passport file. Tracto-an have no Ident Chip and no Passport code. Caprian have Ident chip with valid Passport code that is being flagged by SDF. But Prometheans,” he leaned forward, causing his chair to creak and pop alarmingly as the cybernetics in the back of his head flashing furiously, “have Ident chip, valid Passport, and small chance already on Caprian Immigration or SDF watch list.”

Akantha opened her mouth for a rebuke of some kind, but did not know exactly what to say.

“The creature might have a point,” Chief Lesner agreed in a begrudging, almost disbelieving, voice.

“That might actually work!” Gants said excitedly, and then, predictably, his face fell. “The only problem is if there are enough Prometheans…”

With Atticus still scowling at the Primarch, Akantha stared at the Lancer Captain coldly until he straightened his face. Once she had his attention, she speared both the Captain’s with a look.

“How many Prometheans do you have?” the Hold Mistress inquired.

The two Tracto-an Warriors put their heads together and started muttering, with a data slate eventually appearing in their hands.

The answer, when she received it, was far from everything she had been hoping for.

“We have about fifty such Lancers, Hold Mistress,” Captain Darius reported firmly.

Akantha inclined her head as she considered this information. “That is not nearly as many as I had hoped,” she admitted unhappily.

“We have around another three hundred Prometheans in the crew, Lady Akantha,” Gants added helpfully.

She shot a look over at him and she could see out of the corner of her eye Lesner nodding his agreement. “Better,” she said through thin lips, “but I am uncertain how many men we can place aboard the freighter without raising suspicion. Advise me. We must not take any additional chances when we send the merchant ship ahead to infiltrate the Caprian home world; our vengeance must come as a surprise.”

The men around the table nodded in agreement, but she could see that the Caprian Starborn looked unhappy. As well they might, she thought grudgingly, as they are helping to plan an assault upon their birth-polis. She would have to keep careful eye on them. To attack the place of one’s birth, no matter how justified the cause, was not something a warrior did lightly.

She would have to focus the men on their individual tasks and do her best to keep them from dwelling too much on the future.

“Now, before we were diverted with talk of the freight hauler” she interjected imperiously as she cast a grim look around the table, “I believe the Primarch said something earlier about distracting the Caprian Fleet by splitting our forces and drawing them out of position.”

The officers gave themselves a collective shake, and the slightly somber mood which had been growing was temporarily broken.

“I’m just a Gunner, my lady,” Lesner said with a sober look, “but after thinking about it, I think we’re going to have to do something like the crea—I mean, the Primarch suggests. I’m no engineer but even with the modifications Chief Engineer Spalding made to the hull of this ship, we can’t beat the sensors of both the Fleet and the Fixed Defenses. We’ve got to do something to divert their attention.”

“We may have no choice, as his words do, indeed, make uncommonly good sense,” Akantha said, unhappy at the thought of splitting their strength even further. Too many small groups and coordination could become impossible, inviting a defeat in detail.

“His time as a pirate has taught him well,” Lesner agreed, evoking a deep, rumbling growl from Glue which was clearly not one of approval.

“It is an expertise we are fortunate to have at this moment,” Akantha said primly, ignoring the demon’s threatened outburst.

“My people experienced attracting maximum attention of system defenders,” Glue stated, his eyes fixed on the Chief Gunner. “We draw them away from Hold Mother.”

“Even concentrated, I don’t see how we have the firepower to fight our way through the orbital defenses,” the Chief Gunner countered, meeting the Primarch’s eyes and holding them, “I’m not saying we shouldn’t run the distraction; I just don’t know how we’re going to punch our way through.”

“If ship guns not strong enough,” Glue said, causing the Chief Gunner to stiffen at the insult to his guns, “do not use them.”

“If we can’t sneak in then this Cruiser’s guns are the only thing we have available,” Lesner retorted.

Glue turned to Gants. “You have grav-boards from Armor Prince?” the Primarch asked.

“Yes,” Gants said wrinkling his forehead, “you’re not saying we should try another cold space assault, are you!? We have fewer than six hundred Lancers—less after we transfer the Prometheans!” Despite his words of protest, Akantha knew that the ship’s First Officer was obviously starting to come around to the idea.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the Lancer Captains bristle at the implication that they would be rendered unequal to the task.

“If brave enough to jump, and if have explosive charges…” the Primarch shrugged.

“Brave? Who are you calling cowardly, demon!?” Atticus snapped. “A lancer can do anything a demon can do—only more and better! We are the Chosen of Men!”

Glue shook his head at the Lancer Captain, but did not press the issue further.

“I think we have the beginnings of our final plan,” Akantha said with a feeling of deep satisfaction.

The members of the war council shared a long look and then slowly nodded, eventually bringing their collected focus back on their Hold Mistress.

“Victory shall be ours!” she snarled, raising her clenched fist into the air.

Chapter Eight: Calm before the Storm

“Ship is still rigged for silent running, First Officer,” reported the Engineering Watch Stander, “no sign of failure on the emissions protocol. We haven’t been spotted yet.”

“No sign we’ve been detected, Sir,” chimed the petty officer who was supervising the Sensor section as well as running a console at the same time.

“Good job, bridge crew,” Gants said seriously.

The clatter of crudely made duralloy armor sounded at the blast doors leading into the bridge. The giant, hairy, Sundered did not move much while on guard duty—a task they had taken over after transferring from the corvettes around the same time most of the Lancers had transferred off. However, when they did move, the clanking sound of duralloy plates on duralloy plates was much more evident than a Lancer’s suit of power armor.

“We’re due to make Harpoon fall within the next twelve hours, bridge crew. Keep alert! And please remember that her ladyship wants us to make sure all the critical personnel on Harpoon are secured before giving the signal to kick off the main attack,” Gants reminded them.

The door slid open and Akantha strode onto the bridge.

“Is everything in order, Warrior Gants?” Akantha asked, stepping up to the command chair.

“Her Ladyship has command of the ship,” Gants said jumping out of the chair, like a weasel out of a box. He turned to her and saluted.

Akantha returned the Caprian style salute before sitting down in her chair, like a queen returning to her throne.

“It’s all good, Lady Akantha,” Gants said trying for a professional demeanor. “We’re still about twelve hours out but there’s no sign the Outer Marker Sensor Buoys have spotted us. But given Harpoons current position, we’re going to cross into the system proper in about ten hours…” he trailed off.

“Then we cross into your former home world’s vaunted Deep Space Sensor Arrays,” Akantha said with an all-too pleased smile. She looked far too much like the cat that got the cream—or, more likely, the cat that just ate the mouse—for Gants’ peace of mind

“Exactly, milady,” the young First Officer pointed out with concern, “the outer system sensor network is much more powerful than the relatively scattered sensor buoys. The Sensor Buoys are more for spotting the footprint of an arriving hyper jump, while the Deep Space Arrays are meant to catch anyone trying to sneak into the system.”

“I have every confidence in this ship and its crew,” Akantha said airily, not at all appearing phased by the possibility of being detected early and throwing all their carefully laid plans into chaos.

“This isn’t like with the Omicron, Milady!” Gants warned excitedly. “I’ve spoken with the sensor techs, and the Omicron had a big bank of powerful sensors but other than whatever the pirate ships in the area forwarded to her, all that station had was a number of super powerful arrays—fixed arrays, My Lady. They were all stuck in one place: the station,” he drew in a deep breath, “but the Caprian System isn’t a single space station. The SDF has a sensor network that crisscrosses the entire Solar System! And with…with…redundant detection features!”

Despite stumbling a little bit at the end of his explanation—mainly due to not being all that familiar with the intricate technical details of sensor technology—he felt proud that he had been able to relay what the Techs had told him. After all, it wasn’t that difficult to look at overlapping sensor detection zones and run a few test simulations to see just how alarming the results were! A standard, generic, Medium Cruiser didn’t last very long before being detected in the sims.

“You seem concerned,” Akantha offered, sounding unusually sympathetic, which caused Gants to stare at her.

“Of course I’m concerned,” he blurted, “I’m only surprised that you’re as worried as I am!”

The Hold Mistress sighed and gave him a smile, like he was a trying school child who had just done something which was only half as interesting as he thought he had.

“There are two reasons for this,” she said, bestowing the sort of look that only Noble Ladies who are certain of themselves can.

“Yes?” he said eagerly, feeling swept up in the moment.

“I have every confidence in the abilities of the Wizard Spalding,” Akantha informed him, “and if the man says he has made it more difficult for the enemy to spot us when we are stopped, or moving slowly…as we are doing now,” she said pointedly, “then I will bow to his superior knowledge. I will never have as much wisdom in these matters as he, so I must choose to believe or not believe…and Wizard Spalding has never let me down before. Therefore, I chose to believe.”

Gants stared at her, “You said there were two reasons, Lady Akantha?” he finally asked. Akantha blinked thoughtfully, prompting him to ask, “What was the second?”

“The Second is something you must learn if you are to be a leader of men,” Akantha said a touch disapprovingly.

“Yes, yes,” Gants said eagerly.

“You must learn that sometimes events do not go to plan, and despite the best efforts of your people there is nothing which can be done about it,” Akantha said imperiously. Then she added, “Nothing except pull out your sword and fight your way through it!” Fitting words to action, she pulled out her sword and sliced the air before herself expertly with the long, thin blade of Bandersnatch whistling as it slashed this way and that.

Gants ducked instinctively, even though her illusory adversary had been nowhere near himself. “Thank you,” he said humbly, even though he wasn’t really sure he had enough time to think about her advice before deciding if he should be grateful or not. As his father used to tell him, when they pull out the sharp knives and start waving them around you, it was time to make yourself scarce for a while. And just like his dad had told him, right at that moment he was more worried about getting his head lopped off than anything else, unlikely as that might have been.

“You are welcome, Gants,” the Lady Akantha stopped to answer him, assuming a semi-heroic pose.

Seeing his chance, Gants beat a hasty retreat back over to the Sensor Section where there were lots of nice, big consoles behind which a man his size could easily duck. Even a big sword like Akantha’s would need more than a few chops to get through all that metal.

Lady Akantha isn’t a bad leader, he decided as he cowered in the sensor section. After all a lot of guys—including him—would die for her if she needed them to. It’s just that the Little Admiral’s Wife had a tendency to pull out that old Sword of Kings—a historical, Caprian treasure—and start waving it around. Why, if he didn’t know better, he’d think she actually wanted to start lopping off heads! Sure, she had a temper sometimes and all but…

Really, Gants, he scolded himself silently, how crazy is that?

****************************************************

Akantha looked out at the bridge with, if not happiness, then at least satisfaction over the way ‘her’ Bridge Team was performing. Jason is not the only one who can run a war band when he needs to, she thought with satisfaction.

“Men only need to be firmly led,” she said to herself, “preferably by someone neither too stupid nor too savage, but neither flaw is a deal breaker.” Real women would never be as accommodating as men were to each other, she thought smugly. But then, that was part of why the superior sex was the superior sex and ultimately placed in charge of things until Men returned. The legendary glass ceiling had been placed there for a reason, and that reason was to keep the more brutish men folk from smashing everything in sight in their quest for wealth, riches and power at the expense of everything and everyone else. This was something the Starborn seemed to have forgotten.

“Did you say something, Hold Mistress?” Isis asked.

Akantha started at Isis’ voice; she had not realized her musings had been so loud. “It is nothing, Isis,” she said with a shrug, “I was simply considering the need to remind a certain King of his gender’s Men-decreed limits. I believe it will be a difficult lesson for him to learn, when I introduce his overly pompous head to the ceiling beneath which all men must learn to exist—it is, of course, an introduction which will require a certain application of force.”

“Smash his head in for us, Mistress,” Isis said savagely.

“I will, Isis,” she assured her. “Oh, I will,” Akantha repeated, all but rubbing her hands together in anticipation as she imagined their soon to be meeting.

“Five minutes until we cross over into range of the Deep Space Arrays, Captain,” reported the Helmsman, sounding worried. It was almost as if he thought he would be blamed if anything went wrong.

Akantha looked back on the main screen, which was now showing the edge of the sensor net. She watched as the minutes ticked down, and each second was a burden. The Starborn and their determination to master entropy with their clocks and countdowns had never so irritating as they were at that moment. “One minute and counting,” Gants reported, even though anyone and her sister could see the seconds counting down on the main screen.

Akantha stood from her chair, full of nervous energy, even thought she had the highest confidence in Spalding’s work.

It felt like every head on the bridge swung her way in unison, and the Hold Mistress felt her face start to heat. Having everyone looking at her was worse than being scolded during a Young Ladies deportment lesson. At least during a lesson she could blame the instructor for being too strict. Real life removed the instructor, leaving no one to blame but herself.

It really is rather infuriating, she thought as she wiped the seat of her pants, as if she had discovered an unwanted wrinkle, before sitting back down.

Heads swiveled back to stare at the screen and Akantha gritted her teeth. Sitting in a chair while rushing to battle or sneaking up on a foe still seemed unnatural to her. At least in a shuttle assault, the seats were uncomfortable and the grav-systems were pushed to their max, which allowed her to feel fluctuations when the shuttle was on its final attack run.

Along with everyone else on the bridge, the Hold Mistress found herself holding her breath. She knew this because as soon as they passed whatever invisible line in space the computers and sensor people had predicted, the numbers started counting backwards and nearly everyone audibly let out the breaths they had been holding.

“We made it,” Gants grinned.

“We still have quite a ways to go,” Akantha observed. “Not that I was concerned,” she added with a sniff, “what will be, will be, but the Wizard does good work. I continue to have every confidence.” “Of course, my lady,” Gants said stiffening.

Akantha shook her head. “Carry on,” she sighed before standing, “I will be in the ready room if there is need for my presence.”

Chapter Nine: Too many Harpoons

“You can’t do this!” a powerfully built man with thick fingers shouted at her, his image on the screen slamming both hands onto some kind of metal table with enough force to elicit a rattle.

“My vassals are landing on this giant rock you call ‘Harpoon’ even as we speak,” Akantha snapped back, feeling offended, “it is already done.”

“So this is his revenge now, is it?” the man raged. “First he went space happy, and now that he’s finally lost the rest of his mind and gone rogue he’s determined to punish us? You tell the Governor he can take his protection and shove it up his hind end! We’ll fight you tooth and nail, Lady. This rock will bleed before we give a space pirate one single, metric ton!”

“As I have already said, we are not here for the metal,” Akantha retorted, holding onto her temper by her fingernails. “We simply mean to take the Governor’s men and his machines off to safety.”

“Yeah, right,” the man sneered, “if you believe that you’re even stupider than I thought, dame.”

“What did you call me?” Akantha asked in a quiet, piercing voice.

“You know what, if you really are his wife then I feel sorry for you,” the man said.

“Why is that?” she asked coldly.

“The way he’s got you so wrapped around his finger, believing up is down and down is up its just pitiful,” the Manager scowled.

“I will have your name, man,” Akantha demanded, a little of the fire she was feeling creeping into the edge of her voice.

“Its ‘Managing Owner Roger Ramius’,” the big man replied, drawing himself up and pulling the microphone on his desk closer to his chest, “and any friend of that pipsqueak, Royal Governor is no friend of mine, woman; I’ll see you in Hades!” So saying, he severed the connection.

“The mine is clearly under new management,” Akantha said into the deafening silence on the bridge of the Furious Phoenix.

“Yes, Lady,” Gants said faintly.

“Isis,” Akantha said calmly after barely a moment’s pause.

“Yes, Hold Mistress,” Isis said carefully from her position at tactical.

“If you would please relay a message for me,” Akantha asked politely.

“Of course,” Isis said with a nod measured to the nth degree.

“Tell the warriors that I would like that Manager’s head on my Bridge at their earliest convenience,” Akantha said calmly.

“Of course,” Isis said, her face devoid of emotion.

Akantha nodded and then turned away.

“You do mean still attached to his body…don’t you?” Gants gulped from his position directly behind her elbow. “I mean, you wanted his head and everything else right?”

Akantha paused in consideration.

“That would also be acceptable,” she finally allowed with a blank expression.

****************************************************

The First Officer gulped again. It seemed increasingly likely to him that things aboard the Furious Phoenix were about to get full-on crazy.

“Psst, First Officer,” whispered the buck-toothed com-tech as Gants was still backpedaling away from the more than slightly terrifying Lady Akantha.

Gants turned around, wide-eyed.

“Psssst!” the Tech hissed even louder.

“What?” Gants asked, turning around and stepping over to the Comm. section.

“I don’t think those Harpooners are on the Admiral’s side,” the Tech said urgently.

“Shhhh, keep your voice down,” Gants said with alarm, being careful to keep his own voice low.

“It’s just that, Sir! I’ve been listening to their internal message traffic—I mean, what we can pick up from here on the short range—and it’s not just that I don’t think they’re on the Admiral’s side now,” the Tech said quickly, “I don’t think they were ever on his side! The way they talk they’ve been here a while and they don’t think very highly of him…I mean, at all.”

“Shut up,” Gants said grabbing the buck-toothed Tech by the side of his neck and giving him a rough shake.

“But, Sir!” the Tech protested indignantly.

“Do you want to get all those miners blokes killed?” Gants demanded, knowing he looked wild-eyed as he did so, “Well…do you!?”

The Tech’s eyes bulged, “No…”he replied before belatedly adding, “First Officer.”

“Good. Then shut your gob, Tech,” Gants ordered. The Tech opened his mouth but Gants cut him off, pointing to Akantha as surreptitiously as possible, “Because in the mood she’s in, if she hears how she was wrong and these bottom-feeders are now and have always been a bunch of bottom-feeding, Governor-hating blighters, why,” he paused, his fertile imagination running wild, “she’s as likely to slaughter them in job lots for treason as she is to pick up our toys, leave them here untouched, and head in system!”

“Oh,” the Tech replied softly, looking more than a little unnerved at the First Officer’s explanation.

“Just keep a lid on it,” Gants ordered harshly.

“Will do, Sir,” the Tech agreed, nodding his head vigorously for emphasis.

“Good grief,” Gants shook his head. The Tech’s these day didn’t have enough common sense between their ears to rub two half credits together with.

Seeing the Lady looking in his direction, Gants quickly straightened and put on his best, ‘nothing interesting going on over here’ look and scurried back over to the command chair. This whole Harpoon operation was turning into one big, blasted, backed up, environmental systems disaster—one where the brown mess started surging back up into the staterooms via the private heads!

****************************************************

“We’re getting reports of general resistance from the miners, Hold Mistress,” Isis reported. “It’s limited to plasma torches, arc-welders, and a few mobile load lifters but they don’t seem happy to see us.”

Akantha could feel her face harden. No one wanted to say it but it was becoming increasingly clear that the reason her Protector had failed to mention the multi-year mining operation on his Harpoon was not because it had simply slipped his mind. It was now clear that it had been because it was something of which he less than proud.

This mine and, since the mine was the only source of inhabitation discovered by her sensor section, thus the entire Planetary Body of Harpoon, appeared to be infested with rebellious mining helots.

She was tempted to order stronger measures than her initial and overly optimistic ‘rescue mission’ had seemed to require. But on the off chance that the issue was just a change in supervisors and that there were still some loyalists on that rebellious rock, she decided to stay her hand.

“Unless they encounter power armor and real weapons, they are to incapacitate any miners that resist and place them on…” she hesitated. The original plan had been to bring them onboard the Phoenix and lock them in crew quarters until alternate arrangements could be made, but in light of their current behavior…her eyes narrowed, “What transport is currently available on Harpoon?”

Gants blinked and then checked his slate.

“They have enough in-system transport to move them all in an emergency. They have an ore hauler and two personnel barges capable of taking two hundred fifty men each,” he reported. “But none of them can make the jump through hyperspace.”

“Then put them on those, along with sufficient guards,” Akantha ordered.

“Yes, my lady,” Gants replied promptly.

“First Officer,” exclaimed the Com-Tech, “the miners are trying to send out a general distress call!”

“Block it,” Gants exclaimed.

“I’m trying,” the Tech replied in a rising voice, “but they’re transmitting on all channels. We need to take out their transmitters or something is bound to get out.”

“Use the lasers,” Akantha ordered.

“But, my lady,” Gants said turning to her, “if we fire from the ship, we’ll be lit up for anything in the system to see us.”

Akantha frowned and turned to Isis, “How close are we to securing the mining facility?”

“There’s still some fighting but the worst of rebels have retreated into the deeper parts of the mine,” she replied.

“Then instruct our warriors to load up everyone they can reach onto the transports; they are to leave the rebels down in the deep mines unless they come back up,” Akantha instructed.

Gants coughed, “My lady, the Comm. Arrays?”

Akantha nodded and turned back to Isis. “Have a squad of Lancers blow the Comm’s; we cannot risk an early warning getting out until after the Sundered make their move. When that is finished, coordinate with the rest of our warriors. I want a hole punched in the roof of that structure after we leave,” she said coldly, “they can use a timed detonation for well after we are gone.”

“They won’t have any atmospheric pressure,” Gants said, a pleading note in his voice.

“Good,” Akantha replied stiffly.

“Blowing them up after we are already gone and they should be safe…” Gants trailed off, looking conflicted.

Akantha met and kept his gaze with her own eyes as hard as stone. “The wages of disloyalty are a burden,” she agreed evenly and then turned away, “my instructions stand.”

“Yes, Lady Akantha,” Gants said unhappily.

“Uh…my lady?” hazarded the buck-toothed promethean com-tech. An instant later Akantha’s attention, but not her eyes, shot over to him—her gaze was fixed on the main screen. “I’m not sure if I’ll be able to block their signal for that length of time. They might get a transmission through,” the tech took a deep breath, “we have the best hardware in the Galaxy. I mean this stuff is top of the line Imperial, but we lost a lot of the best software when the Imperials purged their computers.”

“Do your best,” Akantha said still refusing to turn her head. They would just have to take their chances.

Chapter Ten: Raising the Alarm

In the darkness of space, well outside the hyper limit of the Caprian Star System, a pair of corvettes hung in wait. Upon completion of a pre-timed countdown, estimated to allow the other elements of the group to infiltrate the outer region of the star system, a red flashing zero appeared on the console screens of both ships navigators.

Corvettes, while having a much shorter jump range than a battleship or even a cruiser, had the benefit of being able to charge their jump engines much faster.

Forty five minutes later, a pair of unidentified warships appeared right on the edge of the hyper limit and immediately launched a cloud of gunships, setting off every single alarm in the Caprian SDF’s early warning system. When the corvettes immediately started a high speed burn on an intercept course for an automated supply dump hiding in the Caprian asteroid belt, every warship in the system went on high alert.

Within minutes, the ready reaction force jumped to the edge of the hyper limit right behind the unidentified corvettes, and multiple warships inside the system set themselves on an intercept course. Normally a pair of corvettes would not have been allocated so many units, but the addition of a dozen gunships per corvette increased the number of rogue units. Thus, the risk they posed to the intra-system traffic went well beyond an acceptable level to be handled by the reaction squadrons outside the hyper limit and the outer defense squadron inside it.

Chapter Eleven: Opening Maneuvers

“We have now confirmed that the hyper footprint on the edge of the hyper limit and directly behind the Sundered corvettes is that of the Caprian Rapid Reaction Force, my lady,” Gants reported and then paused before nodding as he looked at his slate, “and it also looks like the three squadrons of the outer defense perimeter, posted deeper inside the star system, are also responding in force.”

“Total forces currently directed toward Glue and his forces?” Akantha asked calmly.

“Four corvettes with the rapid reaction force and another…” he hesitated as he double-checked his data slate. “Four corvettes, four destroyers, two medium cruisers and a heavy cruiser,” he finally reported.

“Not counting the cruiser squadron we believe is still hanging outside the hyper limit in case of another incursion,” Akantha corrected.

“They haven’t thrown into the fight yet, but yes, Ma’am,” Gants said nodding his head, “there should be two or three more cruisers out there somewhere.”

Akantha eyed him oddly at the use of the unusual honorific but then shrugged it off. “That leaves us how many ships to sneak past or otherwise deal with?” she asked coolly.

“Other than several dozen interstellar freighters and more than twice that in domestic intra-system shipping?” Gants asked with a lopsided grin. Akantha just looked at him until the young Caprian man’s grin slowly wilted. “Sorry,” he muttered.

Akantha cocked an eyebrow, encouraging him to continue.

“Two battleships appear to be docked at the shipyard; one of them is undergoing a major refit, while it looks like, from here,” he stressed his lack of certainty, “the other one, the Parliamentary Power, also appears to undergoing repairs but of a much more advanced stage than the first battleship, the, uh…Legislative Might.”

“Both of them under repair at the same time,” Akantha said with a hungry smile as numerous thoughts began to swirl through her head.

“But my lady!” Gants exclaimed, seemingly determined to rain on her parade, “I can only find two battleships.” Gants was looking worried, and sounding concerned as he relayed this information, “I can’t find either the People’s Initiative or the Voters Enfranchised, both of which were fully run up, unlike the Might and the Power which were still in moth balls even back before the Lucky Clover last left Caprian orbit! Not to mention an entire missing squadron of four fully functional heavy cruisers! My lady, they could be anywhere and—”

“Enough, Gants,” Akantha cut off her First Officer.

Gants paused midsentence and swallowed, closing his mouth as he did so.

“No more of what we cannot see or easily infer; list for me the forces of this King I have come to call on—the ones which will still stand in our way,” Akantha instructed.

“Lady Akantha…are you sure we really must continue deeper into Capria?” Gants pleaded. “We’ve liberated the work force of Harpoon and…” he trailed off in the face of Akantha’s scowl. “I understand,” he said with a sigh, “okay. Well…we can positively ID two old Hydra class medium cruisers orbiting Capria, as well as a pair of corvettes that are working through customs inspections. Other than that…” he frowned, “we have two squadrons: one orbiting the 3rd Planet and the other 5th. Each squadron is located at an old orbital fort and both planets are on the other side of the sun from Capria itself. So they should pose a minimal risk up until we’re discovered.”

“Good,” Akantha said with a feeling of deep satisfaction, “if we can get to Capria without raising the hue and cry, they will pose no problem.”

“Also,” Gants hastened to add, looking anything but reassured by her assessment of the two orbital bases, “we’ll have to wade through significant resistance in the form of orbital defenses. Three Orbital Forts, two dozen defense turrets, a fortified shipyard, as well as any number of defense satellites—”

“Right,” Akantha interrupted with a satisfied smile, “the Lancers will focus on disabling the ones which hold geo-syncronaticus of whatever position, over the head of King James and his Palace.”

“Geo-synchronous orbit, my lady,” Gants corrected, “but even with the Lancers kicking in duralloy hatches and taking names, I’m worried.”

Akantha turned and placed a firm hand on his upper arm. “All will be as it must,” she said with a steely glint in her eye, “we will go home carrying our shields with pride, or we shall return atop of them.”

“But the odds,” Gants said looking stressed.

“There comes a time in every polis’ history when it must make this decision,” Akantha said, absently tracing a finger along the scars running down her face under each eye.

“What decision, Lady?” Gants asked with trepidation in his voice.

Akantha smiled, and it was more a savage barring of teeth than a smile. “Whether to lie down before your enemies or stand up and kick them in the teeth!” she said standing up from her chair and releasing Gants’ arm, “set a course for Capria—best speed!”

“Yes, Lady Akantha,” Gants sighed.

“I have given a name for my pain, First Officer Gants,” Akantha said her eyes burning a hole into the main screen, as if by pure force of will she could transport the Furious Phoenix into position directly over Capria, “and it is, King James.”

Chapter Twelve: Silent Fury

Deep in the void between planets, a silent horde of armored warriors rode their grav-board chariots. Moving ever closer to their targets, the Lancers—warriors of Tracto in the main, but of other heritages as well—held their voices silent. They knew that to transmit so much as a simple greeting or maneuvering order was to invite destruction upon their ranks.

The Tyrants of Capria had turned their gaze upon the Lancers, their Lady, and their Leader and dealt them a terrible blow. But that was the way of the warrior: to fight and to die for their cause, their warlord, and their mistress…but it was also the way of the warrior to regroup and present a counterattack.

The Lords and Ladies of this system thought themselves immune to attack—safe from retribution even! While the warriors defending, paranoid as they were, never expected so audacious an attack upon themselves or their charges.

Parliament and this King thought themselves safe, and this was their mistake. No one was safe when they declared war upon a Tracto-an, as these warriors and Lancers were about to demonstrate when they were once again free to unleash their fury.

With silent determination, the six full companies of Lancers in their battle suits—all that remained after the treacherous attack at the Omicron—inched ever closer to their several and varied targets. The predator was about to become prey, and these warriors—whether native Tracto-an sworn to their warlord, or short-statured Starborn trained to war by will of their Admiral—each and indeed every one of them had shared a name for the pain they had suffered in common with the Hold Mistress of Messene.

It was King James.

Chapter Thirteen: The Sticky Glue Trap

“We are faced with corvettes ahead and corvettes behind, my Primarch,” squealed a young female with an attractive black and grey brindle patter to her pelt, and a much less attractive, heavily-scarred left arm ending in a mechanical hand.

Not that he would hold either the arm or the attractiveness against her, as there were many reasons a Sundered joined the battle forces. Many had lost more than just a part of one limb during his people’s Exodus, and he knew that each member of his group had their own reason, and each of them deserved his respect.

However, even an untrained female should have known better than to start squealing as if in distress, especially when there were multiple males on the bridge at the same time. All of them were in the generally uncomfortable position of riding to war with an enemy, but this time they were completely incapable of standing from their chairs to relieve their excess energy and aggression in the usual ways by pacing about or thumping their chests.

Glue sighed heavily. “Moderation of tone is required, young one,” he rebuked her. He tried to be as mild as he could but he had clearly not been mild enough, as several mature male heads swung his way.

“Focusing on priority tasks!” he growled at the males, causing heads to snap back around to focus on the foes arrayed before and behind them.

“One regrets, Primarch,” the female with the scarred arm and metal hand offered, laying her ears flat on her head and taking a four-legged stance to show submission.

Glue huffed with displeasure and gruffly gestured her away.

“Be more at ease, Ship Master,” said a quiet voice from behind his off side elbow.

Glue pursed his lips and puffed out his cheeks with irritation. “Overreactions on every turn, is she,” he snorted, silently releasing the majority of the air in his mouth. It would not do to act like an ill-mannered male facing controversy on his first deployment. As Ship Master and Primarch, he had the distasteful task of setting a good example for all.

“She is freshly trained—and damaged as well—you old male,” said the female staring at the decking beneath his feet, “give her…give them all a chance to settle in to their duties.”

Glue chuffed with displeasure.

“’Old’ is it?” he growled, continuing to look straight ahead.

“In this you are the wizened old Grey Back, and they are freshly come into this world. Be more at ease,” she repeated.

Glue rounded on the scar-faced female beside him and leveled a look at her. To his surprise, she looked up and met his gaze evenly.

“In a new ship always are there troubles,” he finally grunted before turning back around.

“Then settle them,” the female said calmly, “but take not your frustrations out on the young ones. You have a ship again and a crew that is ready to follow. Now you must lead.”

Glue scowled at her. “Females,” he grumbled with disgust, “putting their noses into everything, whether it concerns them or not.”

“Males,” she chided him with a smirk, “always thinking they are the center of everything. As you will recall, half the Sundered on this ship are females. Haven’t we got the right to be involved just as much as the males? I know you are not one who believes we haven’t the right to defend our family, clan and homes.”

“Talk, talk, talk! That is the problem,” he cursed, “all I can do is talk.”

“What is wrong with talk?” the scar-faced female asked, now sounding slightly offended. “It solves many problems.”

“Like a female to believe that everything can be solved with the words,” Glue frowned with displeasure.

“If talk is not solution, then what is, oh wise and mighty male?” the female shot back with a quickly hidden fire in her eyes.

“Males must talk,” Glue allowed after a second of staring into that fire, “but there is much which will not be spoken that must also be dealt with. My station does not currently permit me to deal with those issues.”

“I’ve heard it all now,” the scar-faced female laughed, the faintest edge of mockery in her light voice, “a male who complains he has too much status.”

Glue glared at her with sudden anger and then the irony of it poked into his brain and he scowled at her. But in the face of her continued mirth, a reluctant chuff of amusement escaped him and then he chuckled.

“Not a common complaint,” he agreed with a laugh.

“No it isn’t,” she agreed.

Mirth and laughter slowly fading Glue once again turned serious, and the mood so recently dispelled with laughter returned. He stared glumly down at the arm of his giant command chair with unseeing eyes.

“Every right, females have,” he said addressing her earlier point, “but this is a war band and females can choose to make war or choose to stay home. But for males…it is in our blood to fight and test for strength,” the female opened her mouth, but he cut her off, “the problem is not if a male is above or below. Unless the male is being an idiot, of course,” he allowed, conceding the argument before she could even make it, “we are not just creatures; can still follow. But until we know who is who, there is uncertainty. My status means they do not challenge, out of respect. But without resolved challenges there can be no true leader, and therefore no true followers.”

“Really?” the female said doubtfully. “I’ve seen many elders who never received a challenge and still lead very well.”

A thunderous expression crossed Glue’s face. “I am no age-weakened Elder, with grey fur and years of wisdom filling his head until it will burst,” he said flatly, “Glue is a male in his prime!” He slapped his chest with a quick double thump, “Let them come, he who would test Glue’s strength. Glue is ready for them. That is why he is called Primarch, not Elder!”

“So fearsome, that the challenge circle is the only way for this Primarch,” the female said skeptically, “yet none will challenge. Whatever will he do?” she finished sarcastically.

Glue gritted his teeth and stared at the decking for a long minute before slumping in his chair. “Way of Elder: talk, talk, talk,” Glue said with disgust and then slumped morosely, “I am truly doomed!”

“You will survive,” the female said placing a gentle hand on his forearm.

“My head will turn to mush and then I will be a mush brain,” Glue complained before grabbing a handful hair on the same arm as touched by the female. “See!” he exclaimed, pointing to the single grey hair in the sea of black in his hand, “I am aged before my time.”

“Poor Primarch,” the female soothed, “all ready to fight and prove his strength and with no one ready to wrestle and roll around with.”

“I am no Cubling!” he cursed at her. “What is your name female?” he demanded.

“Duba, oh Ship Master,” the female replied, lowering her eyes to the floor but her posture was belied by the humor in her voice.

Glue’s eyebrows beetled and he stared down at her with growing displeasure. Then an idea occurred to him and he popped his lips with amusement as he scanned the command deck. The female was right, after a fashion, in chiding him. However, he refused to turn into a mush brain. Not that all Elders had mush for muscles; Puko, for one, could still carry a spear and duralloy shield. It was just the principle of the things. But for all of that, the female was right: he needed to stop moping around and do something.

His eyes settled on a particularly irritating male: Guvo, from Tactical. The other male, sensing Glue’s eyes, looked up and locked gazes with him. Glue stared him down, urging the other male to either accept his authority or issue a polite invitation to contest later. But the other male sullenly stared back down at his weapon’s console.

Filled with irritation, the Primarch returned to staring at Duba and spotted a pair of red hash marks on her leather chest harness. A truly wicked idea occurred to him, and the Primarch’s mood quickly went from angry irritation to mirth.

“Oh, Duba, you are right!” He suddenly grinned, “I am being remiss in my duties to the females onboard this ship.”

Duba looked up at him, her laughter and gentle mockery of earlier replaced with wariness.

“And talking,” Glue continued merrily, “I think you are right, it is what is desperately needed!” Desperately needed in order to urge a few recalcitrant males to finally get up off their overly cautious duffs and settle things like males, he silently added, although if her talking settled things then he wouldn’t complain…too much.

“I don’t know what is in that male mind of yours, but I am just a simple female who—,” Duba said quickly but Glue interrupted her with a clap on the back that staggered her forward a step.

“You are tactically trained, are you not?” Glue said, flicking the red hash marks with a powerful finger.

“Yes, but—” Duba protested.

“That is perfect,” Glue declared talking over her.

“What is perfect?” Duba said, stomping her feet in an irritated pattern.

Glue stared down at her benignly. “We must have more talk in Tactical,” he said, “you are right to point it out.”

“Now, wait just a minute,” Duba disagreed.

“Half our ship is female. We need more balanced leadership,” he grinned, throwing his large arms out expansively.

Duba’s jaw dropped. “You intolerable male,” she goggled at him.

“Yep,” he agreed with a lip smacking smile. He could all but taste the irritation Guvo was about to be eating. Then he straightened his features into a more disciplined demeanor, “Now, remember Duba: on a new ship, a Primarch can appoint any Sundered to the Leadership roles.”

“You can’t be serious,” Duba glared at him, “you will put me in charge of Tactical, right before a battle!”

“Go, talk,” Glue grinned. He had no intention of leaving Tactical to itself—Guvo or no Guvo. But maybe this way he could finally get a few of these timorous males off their solidly built hindquarters. Yes, Glue decided, shaking things up had a definite appeal.

The scar-faced female looked at him with ill humor and then leaned close.

“I will get you for this,” she hissed at him.

Glue looked down at her with amusement and then slowly raised an interested eyebrow. “Good,” he said simply.

Duba stomped a foot in disgust and turned away to break the ‘good news’ to Guvo and his small team at Tactical.

The Primarch could tell the moment Guvo understood the change Glue had just made—not accidentally demoting the other male from his leadership role. The red-eyed look the other sent his way assured Glue that there would be at least one male, after this battle, who would no longer let the lead in his buttocks and respect for his battle-decorated Primarch keep him silent in his chair. A female in a leadership role wasn’t so rare as to be noteworthy in and of itself. But to place an untested female over an untested male in the battle department that helped fight the ship?

The female was right: this talking business was really for the best.

“Helm, bring us around to new course and heading,” Glue said relaying the new coordinates, “and increase speed from flank to full.”

“New coordinates locked in and speed now to full,” a sundered female with the same sort of cybernetic implants that festooned the back of Glue’s own head said.

“Base stock ships behind are moving to en-globe and ones in front are positioning to block escape,” Guvo interjected in a sharp, challenging voice.

“Planned and accounted for, Tactical Group. Gunboat Squadron 1 to new course and heading. Squadron 2 is to stay on close protective patrol,” Primarch Glue said, relaying the new vector orders agreeably.

“This order sends away half our gunboats before a battle,” Guvo protested.

“Issue orders, communication group,” Glue growled, his voice shredding the air like a heavy weapon report when that group hesitated. He then turned back to Guvo, “It is traditional for Tactical Groups advice come through mouth of Group Leader, unless idea is unique and in need of special recognition,” Glue rebuked Guvo, making it clear he thought his words to be neither unique or in need of recognition.

“Apologies, Primarch,” Guvo’s eyes burned.

Glue just nodded and continued to issue the necessary orders. The other male might not like the situation but any Tactical Group Leader had to not only be able to do his job competently, he also had to be assertive enough that he was not over awed by his leader. Such a timid person might hesitate to give his best ideas before and during a battle; this was an important learning and growth moment for the younger male.

Although to his surprise, as they maneuvered for advantage against the human warships sent to trap him between them, Duba and Guvo seemed to manage to set up a working relationship on the fly.

Glue ground his teeth appreciatively, knowing that the pair of them would bear close observation for myriad reasons.

“Primarch, the reaction group corvettes are beginning to overtake us,” reported the Sensor Group Leader.

“Engines, increase speed additional five percent,” Glue instructed, “burn duration five minutes.”

“Engines are already at full, Primarch,” the Helm female said, sounding perplexed.

“Engineering Group can always get you more than maximum for a short burn. Contact them,” Glue instructed.

“Yes, Primarch,” the Helm female replied sounding uncertain but she made the call anyway, and minutes later both Sundered corvettes leapt forward slightly.

The Primarch kept his eyes glued to the screen for any change in their pursuers.

“Slight separation noted between lead pair and rear pair of pursuing corvettes behind us,” the Sensor Group Leader reported.

“Helm, prepare to turn the ship forty five degrees on its axis and initiate full burn,” Glue instructed.

“We are to turn and allow the human base stock to engage us?” Duba asked after some furious tapping on a tactical console, no doubt crunching the numbers before giving voice to her concern.

“Gunboat Squadron 1 to new course and speed,” Glue continued, ignoring her question as he rattled off a new string of orders that would bring the gunboats looping around to the side of the corvette squadron pursuing them—assuming the humans continued to follow. And why wouldn’t they, when their Sundered foes were so obligingly allowing them to cut the corner and reach an intercept?

“The turn will allow us to deal with the pursuit squadron before their heavier ships from deeper in the system overtake us,” Glue instructed his bridge group. “When the time is right we will flip our axis and take the humans in the front, head to head, while Gunboat Squadron 1 hits them in the side. If they are fools, maybe they will even have more separation between the front pair and back pair of corvettes.”

“They will never risk an attack on us when we have so many gunboats,” Guvo interjected rudely.

The Primarch turned to stare at him with slowly reddening eyes. “We will see,” Glue said shortly, “there are not many gun boats in this sector and I say it’s likely those corvettes want to wound and cripple our speed so the bigger ships can finish off Glue and his Sundered war band.”

With ponderous finality that rejected any attempt at further conversation, the Primarch leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Even cutting the corner like the base stock behind them were now, the Sundered were still running away from the pursing squadron and their hindmost chasers still had a good half hour before they would run the Sundered down.

Until then, he could rest his eyes. System defenders, in his experience, were fairly predictable in that they wanted to hit the ‘pirate forces’ as far out as possible, as quickly as possible, and cut down on potential damage to their merchant shipping and space based facilities. They would usually go so far as to make attack runs on the pirates to try to at least damage their engines and drive them off, even if the odds of victory in battle were less than sure. He would soon see just how predictable these particular system defenders were prepared to be.

“We fight for the Hold Mother now,” Glue said into the growing silence on the bridge, “like a hornet, we will sting the ox, then sting and sting again. When we run, the whole herd will give chase. And then, the Hold Mother will have her opening to strike.”

Chapter Fourteen: Silent Fury

“Our time of crawling in the underbrush of cold space will soon be at an end,” Akantha said with a growing sense of anticipation.

“ETA is two hours and twenty four minutes to near Capria Orbit, Lady Akantha. The first of our advance teams should be arriving at their targets within the next half hour,” Gants reminded her.

“Let me know as soon as we see any sign that they have reached their targets,” Akantha said with savage smile.

“On it, Hold Mistress,” reported the lead Petty Officer in the Sensor Section.

Several minutes of silence followed as the bridge of the Furious Phoenix waited for the first sign they had been spotted.

“We’re also gonna need to be ready to talk with our people on the ground on a moment’s notice—I mean, if they made it through customs and can make contact,” Gants said, breaking the silence with a burst of nervous chatter.

“Shhh,” Akantha shushed him, “there is no need for jitters. What will be, will be.”

Gants started to look placated and took a deep breath. “You seem very calm, Lady Akantha,” Gants sounded relieved, “I guess I’m just not used to sitting in the hot seat.”

It took Akantha a moment to parse his meaning, and when she did she laughed gaily. The hatred and grim purpose of the past month gave way before an upwelling of mirth such as she hadn’t felt in a long time.

“And why would I have cause to be nervous now?” she asked with a grin.

“Lady?” Gants asked, looking at her oddly.

“We are about to fall upon our enemies like a storm from the heavens,” Akantha explained with a feeling of peace welling up inside her.

Gants eyes widened at her explanation as she continued.

“Between the Power of Men and the wrath of your beloved Saint Murphy, there is no way they shall escape judgment for their attacks upon us,” Akantha declared, her eyes lighting up as she could feel herself filling with the power of her office for the first time since the attack. “Like a hammer of the gods, we will put the Sky Demons to shame and shatter their world!”

Gants expression turned to alarm. “My Lady! Don’t orbitally bombard my home world. Please,” he cried, shattering the peace and harmony of the bridge and jolting Akantha out of her feeling of well-being, “you promised!”

Akantha glared at him. “I am not going to bombard you home world,” she snapped.

The First Officer looked instantly relieved and released a long, whooshing breath.

“When you said ‘the hammer of the gods would shatter my world’, I just assumed,” he said, looking embarrassed.

“I have given my word,” she said angrily, furious even at the way her word was given so little weight, “and I do not need to destroy Capria to shatter the Palace of King James—or to utterly destroy the Parliamentary Building!”

“Oh, gods,” Gants fell back into the First Officer’s chair.

“Indeed,” Akantha stated, “only the gods can save them now.”

Chapter Fifteen: A Customs Job

Two weeks earlier

“Name, ID, and planet of Origin please,” a bored looking woman in a Caprian Custom’s uniform asked, not even bothering to look up from her screen as she absently reached around and scratched her overly ample backside.

“Vali Funar, out of Prometheus,” said the clean cut, well-muscled looking young man stepping off the boarding ramp in a deep voice.

“Funar, huh?” the low-ranking Custom’s Official said looking up for the first time, “that’s not a very common name around these parts.”

“It is common where I come from,” Vali shrugged.

“It says here you’re off a Freighter leased through the Harpoon Development Company?” she asked, tapping away on her screen. Then her brow furrowed as she looked back up at him, “It says here your last Ident stamp was almost two years ago when you left Prometheus.”

“I have been moving around the Sector, mostly in the border worlds,” Vali said with a shrug and a smile.

“Barbarians out there on the Border,” the Customs Agent said with a sigh, “it’s a good thing Central seems to be getting its act together; the sooner we can crush those pirates and bring the Border to heel the better off everyone will be.”

“Of course they will,” Vali said with a smile.

The Customs Agent swiped the passport chip and then handed it back to him. “Don’t lose this,” she said, batting her eyes.

“I won’t,” Vali replied, allowing her fingers to linger on his hand momentarily.

“You wouldn’t happen be planning to stay on the station until after my shift’s end, would you?” the Agent asked.

“I was planning to head down directly…but I could make an exception,” Vali smiled at the overweight Customs official.

“Here’s my contact info,” the Agent replied, again batting her eyelashes as she squirted her com-link code over to the well-muscled man from Prometheus.

“So, what time do you get off?” Vali asked before a throat cleared behind him. Both Vali and the Agent looked to the source of the interruption.

“If you would be so kind, Mr. Funar; the rest of us would like to get through,” replied another, equally fit and well-muscled young man.

“That’s Funar, Traian,” Vali said irritably before turning back to the Customs Agent. “Sorry for my impatient crewmate, normally he’s not so…pushy.”

“I’m Margret, by the way,” the Agent said, raking Traian with a slightly frosty gaze.

“I’m afraid me and a bunch of other guys like Traian,” he stabbed a disapproving look the other man’s way, “all shipped out together.” He then turned a winning smile on the Agent, “Please try not to judge the rest of us by him.”

“I’ll try,” she simpered to Vali. Glancing at Traian, she bestowed a withering look of disapproval before turning her attention back to Vali, and the smile returned as she added, “Mr. Funar.”

“Thank you,” Vali paused a beat, “Margret.”

After bestowing another, slightly less disapproving, look upon Traian, Margret the Customs Agent proceeded to process the unusually large number of transferees out of Prometheus—transferees whose passport chips had last been processed two years earlier.

After everyone who was getting off had passed through Customs, the group of Prometheans had broken up into smaller, less noticeable groups.

Traian and Vali were part of one such group, and were walking through the station corridors together. Traian turned to Vali. “Smooth moves with that woman in Customs,” Traian grinned.

“Eh?”

“It sounded like she was suspicious of how long it’s been since we had another entry on our passports. I was afraid she was going to give us hard time until…” he trailed off with a sly smile.

“Well, a date wasn’t the worst way that could have gone,” Vali grinned.

Traian blinked and looked mildly repulsed. “With that cow? She’s got to be carrying an extra twenty kilos! Besides, you can’t be serious; we’ve got to get down to the surface. We’ve got a mission!”

Vali glared at his fellow Promethean. “Cow?” he asked dangerously.

Traian shot air through his lips and rolled his eyes, “Enough fooling around, man, forget the blimp and get back on task. We’ve got to—”

Vali’s elbow slammed into his throat and pinned Traian up against the wall—a gesture which shut him up quite nicely.

“Watch your mouth, Traian,” he growled.

“Look, forget her, man,” Traian said as soon as Vali let up slightly, “I mean, if that’s your thing then go for it and all, but we’ve got other priorities right now.”

“And what’s wrong with the way she looks?” Vali cursed, letting the other man go. “Just because you boys from Cluj Province like them all anorexic doesn’t mean real man can’t appreciate a woman with some meat on her bones!”

“Crazy, Galati blighter,” Traian exclaimed, shrugging his clothes back into order. “It’s guys like you who give Prometheans like the rest of us bad names,” he growled, shoving a finger in Vali’s face.

“Get that thing out of my face before I break it,” Vali snapped, slapping Traian’s hand away.

“Forget the broad, Vali,” Traian said shaking his head, “we need to check the flight schedule and hitch a ride on the next shuttle down.”

“Sorry, Tray,” Vali said with a smile, “it would look suspicious if a good-looking guy like me were to miss a date with a fine Customs Agent like Margaret.”

“Fine?” Traian spluttered with disbelief. “Look, dude, no one—including her co-workers—are going to think twice if you stand her up.”

“Now, now, Tray,” Vali said waggling his finger at the other man, “we wouldn’t want the agent who scanned us through to be anything less than satisfied,” Vali said with a straight face. “In fact, as far as I can see, it’s my patriotic duty to keep her from wondering where I went. The last thing we need is a bitter, suspicious woman asking questions.”

“Unbelievable,” Traian groaned, “now you’re going to play the ‘it’s my duty to go and sleep with the fat chick’ line?”

“I warned you once not to talk about Margaret that way, you biased discriminator,” Vali snarled, getting right in Traian’s face.

Traian lifted his hands. “Hey, to each to each his own,” he muttered, looking disgusted with the whole conversation.

“That’s what I thought,” Vali said with satisfaction. “Besides,” he added, “while the night is young, all I actually signed up for so far is a date.”

“Man, I know we’ve been out in space for too long but this is ridiculous,” Traian grumbled.

Vali just shook his head and split off. He needed to find the nearest fresher and get ready for later.

“Don’t expect me to wait up!” Traian called after him.

Chapter Sixteen: Deep Penetration

1 week, 6 days earlier

The team sitting in the rundown, greasy, fast food joint had no power armor and looked like they had missed several appointments with their face razors. But they were all mission-focused, just like they had been taught by Colonel Suffic. Unfortunately, while they had been taught about combat operations, none of them knew the first thing about covert missions—other than the need to stay off the Coms.

“Look, we have no armor and we couldn’t bring any equipment through Customs upon the arrival station. But we’ve still got more than enough credits on us to buy some civilian gear,” said the leader of this group, Lieutenant Grogan.

The seven men of the team nodded in unison.

“I see that all of you have picked up street clothes,” his eyes shot over to the one man still conspicuously dressed in common spacer’s garb, “except for Vali.”

The men chuckled and a few ribs poked the odd man out in the ribs.

“Sorry, Sir,” the young Promethean Lancer mumbled.

“Get it fixed, pronto,” Grogan ordered, waiting until the other ducked his head in agreement before continuing, “alright, now that that’s out of the way, we’ve got positive ident on two of our three primary targets: Parliamentary House and the Winter Palace.”

The men nodded in solemn agreement.

“I don’t know why they call it the ‘Winter Palace’ since it’s the only palace listed on this planet but…” Grogan shrugged it off, “at any rate we, still need to locate our last target before this mission can be called anything close to a success.” His eyes shot over to Traian, “What’s the latest on target three?”

The young Lancer looked upset. “There’s nothing listed in the public directory,” Traian said with a helpless shrug, “and I can’t find anything on the net. She might as well be a ghost.”

“Unacceptable,” Grogan snapped, “we’ve been tasked by the lady to secure our War Prince’s,” he paused to correct himself—the Tracto-an’s insistence on viewing things in a feudal light had brought out old habits from home on Prometheus that had no place in common conversation in a Caprian dinner. “I mean, the Admiral’s mother.” He paused and let his eyes sweep the rundown restaurant, “We will not be the weakest link.”

“But, Sir!” Traian exclaimed only to be quickly hushed, for improper military verbiage. “I mean, Grogan,” he spread his hands helplessly and continued in a hoarse whisper, “for all we know, the reason we can’t find her is…is because she’s currently locked up in the palace or a prison somewhere!”

“We need better than that, Tray,” Grogan slammed the palm of his hand onto the rickety aluminum table where they were sitting.

Vali cleared his throat diffidently.

“Yes,” Grogan said, his words relaying that this had better be good or else heads would roll—especially the head of the only man standing out like a sore thumb in his spacer’s gear.

“I found three catering services that are endorsed by the Palace while I was up on the station with nothing to do,” Vali said in a quiet voice, “one of them has an ‘Elaina’ on their list of private chefs. I tried to set up an interview but the catering service wants a two thousand credit retainer before they’ll set up a meeting in person.”

Grogan blinked. “Interesting,” was all he said pausing for a long moment. Then his face hardened, “Pool the funds and set up a meeting with this Chef.”

Vali nodded.

“And get some blasted street clothes while you’re at it,” he glared before transferring his glare over at Traian, “help him make this happen, Tray. Even working part-time, Vali seems to be doing your job better than you are!”

“Yes, S—, yes, Grogan,” Traian said, his face turning red.

“Should we let the other teams know we’ve got a possible hit on the final target?” asked a hitherto silent member of the team.

“Not just yet, Putkin,” Grogan said, turning to the Corporal, “I want confirmation before we leave a message in Founders Square.” He cocked his head quizzically, “Have any of the other teams left a message?”

Corporal Putkin shook his head, “No graffiti yet, Grogan.”

“Whoever had the sweet idea of painting an old statue’s hand green, to signal our readiness, ought to be shot and then tossed out an airlock,” the Lieutenant grumbled before shaking it off. This plan reeked of slap dash and hasty planning but it was all they had. When a Lancer got orders to jump, he didn’t ask how high—he made sure his weapon was charged and started grabbing body bags.

He stood up. “Putkin, gear. Vali and Traian, locate and prepare to secure the target. Use any resources you need: money, manpower, whatever. Just let me know,” he clapped his hands together, “alright, let’s hit the streets.”

There was a pause.

“You heard the man, roll out,” growled Putkin.

Spurred on, the rest of the team jumped out of their chairs. Adjusting hats and checking personal data slates, the highly trained ‘combat team’ hurried out into the night. They had a mission to complete.

Chapter Seventeen: Operation Dinner Out

1 day before

“Twenty thousand credits!” Grogan hissed as soon as he heard the cost of this operation.

“That’s only for renting the entire floor, not just the conference room, as well as the initial retainer. We had to pay another five thousand in leased cooking and party equipment,” Traian explained.

“Twenty Five Thousand credits you’ve blown on this operation?!” Grogan roared.

“Keep it down, Sir,” Vali said urgently, and Grogan did his best to throttle down on his temper.

“I suppose this isn’t the best time to mention that in addition to the ten thousand credit retainer up front, the catering company employing Elaine expects another ten-k credit transfer as soon as they show up on the premises,” Traian said with a weak smile.

“You’re going to give me a stroke,” Grogan groaned, his face turning red.

“You said to spend whatever we needed,” Vali said innocently.

Grogan turned and shot him a withering look. “For your sake,” he made sure to sweep Traian with his gaze also, “both of your sakes, you’d better pray that this Chef shows. And more than that, you’d better double pray that it’s ‘His’ Mother! Or so help me,” he reached into the air with his clenched fists squeezing an imaginary neck.

“It’ll work out fine. She’ll be here, Lieutenant…I mean Grogan,” Vali said confidently.

“Thirty five thousand,” Grogan swore, “that’s the entire discretionary operating budget for two teams!”

“It’s just a drop in the bucket to the pirate treasure we took off of the Omic…” Traian started out confidently, before ending with a weak, sickly grin as he realized his gaffe.

“There will be an accounting of every tenth credit you two’ve spend on this little abomination of an operation,” Grogan promised in a deadly voice. “And if any of it just so happened to find its way into either of your pockets, be ready…because I won’t wait to hand you over to Atticus; I’ll deal with you myself.” Traian looked scared while Vali just looked back at him impassively. “It’s all accounted for,” the other man said with quiet certainty in his voice which was more than slightly at odds with the expression on his face.

****************************************************

“Places, everyone,” Putkin growled, “we just got the confirmation signal: the package is on the way.”

Four teams worth of Lancers and crew from the Furious Phoenix spread around the room. Some were standing, some were sitting, but all pretended to be ‘mingling’.

Grogan winced. It looked about as light-hearted and ‘spontaneous’ as a group of bears locked up in a zoo. The array of business suits, business casual, and cocktail dresses on the few women in the group did little to disguise their overly muscled and clear military bearing. That was, if the dead look in more than a few of their eyes—as if everything they saw now a days was just another target—was an unwanted reminder of their mad scramble for survival back on the Omicron.

Grogan’s eyes hardened, as that particular betrayal more than anything was why so many of them were here. The Lady had been unable to fit the three hundred plus Promethean members of the Lancers and crew on the Harpoon Development ship that she had wanted. But the fifty that she had—about forty of which were Lancer volunteers—were ready for some payback.

Now all they had to do was secure the Admiral’s Mother, light up a few targets with modified civilian communication’s gear, then sit back and watch the fireworks. No one captures our Admiral, leaves us for dead and takes our ship without murderous consequences, Grogan thought grimly. That was something the Lady Akantha knew only too well, and the Lieutenant couldn’t wait to see the results. He only felt a mild discomfort for the pain this attack had been causing some of the more Caprian members of the ship, which was understandable, but not his problem right at the moment.

“Civilian piece of junk,” Putkin swore.

“What is it, Putt?” Grogan asked sharply.

The corporal slapped his hand upside his hand held ‘civilian’ scanner and swore again. “Blighted thing is on the fritz, Grog” Putkin reported, “started to get a positive return on the hover bus with the chef and her cooking team and then the blasted scanner decided to go on a holiday,” he complained, showing the Lieutenant a screen now filled with static and psychedelic colors.

“I’m sure it will be—” Grogan said soothingly, but a commotion at the one side of the conference room with windows intruded.

“What in the Hades now?” he growled, starting over to the window with Putkin in tow.

“It’s a military hovercraft of some kind,” Vali reported, hurrying over to Grogan.

Grogan grit his teeth.

“Two of them, Vali,” Traian shouted across the room, “there’s a second one on overwatch!”

Grogan hurried over with a growl. He looked up and closed his eyes. It was a pair of Interceptor class hover transports, designed to move men and provide crowd suppression fire. These Interceptors were bad news.

“The hover bus just laded,” reported Tray. Then the Lancer cursed, “and we’ve got two quads of battle-suits…looks like those lady-boys from the Palace Guard.”

“’Now, Tray,” Vali turned and dead panned, “just because they powder their faces white and their armor is chromed to within an inch of its life is no reason to call them names.”

“Can it, you two,” Grogan said, “this is serious.”

“We’ve got four teams here. We can take ’em boss,” Vali said seriously.

“Four of our seven teams are here,” Grogan said harshly, “a single quad in power armor could demolish us, let alone two.” When it looked like the other was about to disagree, he made a short, chopping gesture.

“I’ve seen one man take a quad of power armor,” Vali demurred in a low voice, “we’re four entire teams, some twenty eight trained Lancers.”

“In case you haven’t looked around lately,” Grogan caught and held the gaze of Vali, “not one of us is a genetically engineered super freak lacking the acute desire to keep breathing; we are just men! Besides, all we have is word of mouth from the survivors of the gun deck that such a thing even took place.” He shook his head abruptly, “No. Without armor or any weapons better than this civilian junk there’s no way we can take on two quads and a pair of hover interceptors. This operation is blown.” “But this was our chance,” Vali said a bit desperately, “the window is closing and we can’t manufacture another soirée like this before the Lady arrives.”

“Then you’ll just have to find another opening,” Grogan said flatly.

“And if we can’t?” Vali demanded.

“Then manufacture one,” Grogan said bluntly.

Vali winced and then nodded his head.

“But in the meantime, we have bigger problems,” Grogan said.

Vali looked at him questioningly.

“What are two Interceptors and two quads of Palace Guards doing escorting a Chef?” the Lieutenant asked grimly.

Vali’s eyes darted towards the door and then back to the Lieutenant.

“Let’s just hope that they’re being paranoid, because otherwise, we’ve just been blasted,” Grogan said grimly. “Let’s get as many non-essential team members heading for the egress points as possible.”

“Sir…” Vali brought himself up short. No doubt Grogan thought he was about to say that everyone here was essential but wisely decided to hold his tongue at the last minute.

“If it turns out to be a false alarm we can always have them come back,” the Lieutenant’s mouth twisted, “being ‘fashionably late,’ I believe they call it.”

“Of course, Sir,” Vali said, bracing to attention.

Grogan frowned at him, “And cut out the, Sir-ing; we’re about to have incoming.”

“Yess—,” the other man paused, “I mean, Grogan.”

“Good,” said the Lieutenant. Operation Dinner Out looked like it was nothing but a bust. Now it only remained to be seen how big the fall out was going to be.

Chapter Eighteen: Rabbit Run

“Follow that Hover-Bus,” Vali shouted, jumping into the rickety old hover-car and slamming the door shut.

Traian slammed his foot down on the accelerator. The car whined in protest, temporarily speeding up before slowing back down.

“Can’t this thing go any faster?” Vali growled, jerking his safety harness over across his chest.

“Not really,” Traian said tightly.

“Piece of junk!” Vali cursed, slamming his fist onto the dash of the hover-car as the hover-bus in front of them slowly and majestically sped up to a cruising speed before turning the corner and disappearing from sight. “Come on, get the lead out,” he yelled in the direction of the steering wheel.

“Look, just be happy that the escort didn’t seem to have a clue what we were up to,” Traian snapped, turning the steering wheel hard right to make the same turn as the bus. It did not end up being an especially tight turn.

“Talk about insane, paranoid overkill meets bureaucratic overkill,” Vali leaned forward hungrily, “I mean, who sits on the mother of someone who did something wrong and tasks two Interceptors and two full squads of palace guards to follo—” Vali choked as the old hover-car they were in slid across three lanes of traffic including an oncoming one. “Yeoww!” he cried, throwing himself back in his seat and covering his eyes with his forearms as he braced for the inevitable crash.

The sound of a horn blared at them as a woman on a hover-cycle sped around them, her middle finger clearly extended in their direction.

“Sweet Murphy, what are you doing?” Vali shouted as the hover-car finally caught up and began to ponderously cross back through the oncoming lane—which was, by the grace of Murphy, devoid of any traffic—and back into their lane.

“This thing’s supposed to have a pair of repulsors on either side of the front end where the wheels would be,” Traian said fighting to control the car. “At least, that’s how they are, back home.”

“Yeah,” Vali replied, not really paying any attention as he held onto the top and bottom of the dash with a death grip, “how many do we have?”

“We’ve got one that sort of works on the front left,” Traian explained dryly.

“Well that explains it,” Vali said holding on for dear life, “let’s just hope the right side starts compensating better; these things have auto-regulators. It should kick in eventually.”

Traian turned in his chair and gave him an ‘are you stupid stare.’ “I said the left side has one damaged repulsor. We don’t have any repulsors on the right for the computer to compensate with!”

“This is insane,” Vali protested, his voice turning to a scream as a red sports car with racing stripes zoomed out of a side street, cut in front of them with barely enough clearance to miss their bumper and promptly slowed down. There was a traffic signal up ahead.

“Oh, blast!” Traian said slamming on the breaks. The inertial compensator screamed in protest at this rough treatment, and to avoid hitting the sports car, jerked their hover-car back into the empty oncoming lane and proceeded to run the light.

“This is the best you could do for a transpo, you dink?” Vali yelled, the utility door on the bottom of the dash breaking loose in his hand, which had been clutched tightly in his hand under the stress of several near death experiences in the past few minutes.

“We just blew the entire team’s discretionary budget on Operation Dinner Out,” Traian shouted back, muscling the sloppy steering around until the hover-car was back in its right lane, “you try getting a primo set of wheels with no budget.

“How much did you pay for this piece of junk?” Vali snapped.

Traian paused to calculate and then said, “Put about five hundred into this beast.”

“Five hundred! Whoever sold this to you for five hundred credits took you to the cleaners,” Vali raged as he spotted the rear of the bus up ahead as it turned a corner. “Quick, after her,” he pointed at the quickly disappearing bus.

Traian punched the accelerator and once again, slow as molasses, they started to speed up. “I didn’t pay five hundred for the car, I took it off some guy for free,” Tray disagreed, “I put about five hundred worth of repairs into it.”

“Well whatever you’ve spent on it is the same as wiping your hindquarters with those credits and flushing it down the head, you blighter,” Vali said damningly. Lifting his other hand for emphasis—the one not pointing toward the now disappeared bus—he realized he was still holding the little plastic door to the utility box. He stared at it for a second and then with a shrug tossed it into the back seat.

“I disagree,” Tray argued, “there’s no way we could have followed government guards in a taxi. Can you imagine saying, ‘follow those heavily armed palace guards and I’ll give you a tip?’ We’d be up on espionage charges in nothing flat! No. we’re fortunate to even have a hover-car for this hot pursuit.”

“Hot,” Vali snorted, causing a bit of spit to come up and then try and go back down the wrong pipe. He thumped his chest with a fist to clear the blockage. “Suspicious, is it?” he wheezed, “The way you’ve been sliding this thing across the oncoming lanes, we’re going to be tagged by the cops for half a dozen road violations already! The traffic cams will scan and lock on our transponder and send the nearest police hover-cruiser.”

“No, we won’t,” Traian said with quiet dignity. “Because like so much else that’s wrong with this car, the transponder’s on the blink too. And by the time they quiz the cam for a visual and zero in, we’ll be long gone.”

“The way this thing accelerates?” Vali sneered, “What have you got to say about that?!”

“I’d say that you’d better pray you’re wrong,” Traian snapped back.

This time, when he went to make the corner he liberally applied the brakes long before reaching the turn, and although the car slid from one lane into another they managed to stay out of oncoming traffic.

“There she goes again,” Vali cried as the hover-bus once again turned several blocks down lane of them. He slammed his hand on top of the dash with enough force to crack the decaying plastic it was made from and pointed, “Follow that bus!”

Traian scowled and punched the accelerator for all it was worth. “You know it’s a good thing we’re chasing after a bus; the way it takes extra time to speed up and slow down is a blessing. Otherwise we’d have lost it after the first turn!”

“Just watch out for those Interceptors; we can’t get too close or the way you’re driving we’ll be spotted,” Vali retorted.

“Speed up, slow down. Get close, we’re losing them. Now slow down, we’re going to be spotted! Make up your blasted mind, why don’t you?” Traian grumbled irritably.

“If we link back up with the Lieutenant after blowing thirty five thousand credits on a party that didn’t even let us lay hands on the target, you’ll be begging to have me back yelling in your ear instead,” Vali retorted.

Traian paused to consider before sighing, “True enough.”

They really needed to catch up with the Admiral’s Mother or they were all going to be dead meat. Her ladyship wasn’t exactly known as being the most forgiving person alive. Not to mention what the Lieutenant was going to do with them if they failed.

****************************************************

“The suburbs,” Traian muttered with disbelief, “enough guards and hardware to start a small war, and do they even bother enough to say, ‘lock her up in the Palace?!’ No, they just follow her bus all the way back to the suburbs and then as soon as she gets off the bus they peel off! What kind of messed up system is this?”

“Be careful,” Vali warned, “there’re probably under-covers in plain clothes watching the place round the clock.”

Traian’s jaw jutted out stubbornly but he nodded in agreement, “You’re right. It just seems completely and utterly insane. To put all that into guarding her during work and then just let her go home like this? I just wish I knew what was going on.”

“You and me both, brother,” Vali said with feeling.

Traian looked at him sideways through a narrowed eye, “I’m not your brother, Galati Province,” Tray sniffed.

“Crazy Cluj blighters,” Vali sighed, “you know what. Part of the reason I left the home world was to get away from the old stereotypes.”

“Well, you know what they say,” Tray muttered, and Vali looked at him questioningly. Tray got a sly look and smirked, “You can take the Galati boy out of the province but you can’t take the province out of the—”

He didn’t get any further before Vali’s fist thumped into his shoulder with punishing force.

“Blighter,” Traian cursed raising his own fist, “That hurt!”

“Stay on task,” Vali said with a satisfied smirk of his own, “we’ve got work to do. There’ll be time for horsing around later.”

Tray sat there sullenly rubbing his shoulder for a long minute before sighing. “I do know what you’re talking about,” he said after a moment. Vali looked over at him with a raised eyebrow. “Tracto and the Confederation Fleet is a new beginning for us. It’s not like in the home world where everything is under the control of the princes and a few Oligarchs. Out here we can make something of ourselves; a man can rise as far as he dares,” Traian said.

Vali looked at him in surprise.

“So even though I might twit you about those same stereotypes,” the two young men shared a look of understanding camaraderie—albeit one that didn’t promise not to get on the other’s nerves, “I know what you’re talking about.”

“Good,” Vali said as the moment passed, “we’ll sit on this house for a couple hours and make sure we weren’t followed or spotted, then we call in Grogan.”

Traian nodded and after that they sat in silence, eyes continually scanning the empty neighborhood streets. An hour passed, and then two.

“So…something I could never understand,” Tray broke the silence.

Vali looked at him questioningly.

“Is what exactly you Galati see in the fat girls,” Traian snickered.

Vali raised his fist.

“Pax,” Traian said, raising his hands and cringing underneath them.

Vali thought about striking him again and then gave it up as a zero sum game, “Oh shut up.”

Traian smiled and shook his head but eventually went back to monitoring the area.

“I wish we had some night gear,” Vali sighed, rubbing his eyes. Sitting on a stake out wasn’t exactly something they practiced during lancer training onboard the ship.

“I hear that,” Traian said, “we had better gear boosting cars back on Prometheus.”

Vali’s head snapped around. “So it’s true what they say: keep one hand on your keys when a Cluj is around.”

“Keys,” Tray sneered, “that’s just what we tell the simpletons. A real man doesn’t need no keys.”

Vali coughed into his hand and they broke down with laughter.

Chapter Nineteen: Breaking onto the scene?

“You’re sure this is the place?” Grogan said, his mouth a tight line on his face.

“Yes, Sir—I mean, Grogan,” Vali said bracing.

“Any sign of guards or surveillance?” the Lieutenant asked.

“No, Sir,” Vali said firmly, “not that we could see anyway.”

“But you don’t have the equipment or training to tell,” Grogan said with a sigh. “Could you at least even tell if you were followed here?”

“No tails, Lieutenant,” Traian broke in firmly, “boosted enough cars I’d have spotted them. We weren’t followed here and the civilian auto-tracker on this car’s been disabled.”

Grogan closed his eyes. “It’s a sad day when the criminal past of one of my men gives me a feeling of relief,” he said with a shake of his head, “a sad, sad, day.”

“Aww, it ain’t that bad, Sir,” Traian said.

Grogan gave himself a shake. “Well, there’s nothing to be done for it,” he lifted his wrist up to his mouth and the younger men could see a civilian communicator on it, “G-Team, cut off access to the rear. D-Team, prepare for entrance.”

“Larry that,” replied the G-Team Leader.

Grogan’s face twisted as he deactivated the communicator, “We left all the crazy Caprians back on the ship. Larry this and Larry that. Who ever heard of Larry, anyway? ‘Roger’ was always good enough everywhere else I’ve been.”

“Trying to be more Caprian than the Caprians?” Vali mused.

“I’ll not tolerate a comment about another team leader from the rank and file,” Grogan growled. “Back on task, Lancer.”

Vali stiffened and looked at the Lieutenant out of the corner of his eye, “Task, Sir?” he asked.

Grogan glared at him and then the Lieutenant’s face took on a very slight, very self-satisfied sneer as he clapped the younger Lancer on the shoulder. “Of course,” he replied with mock enthusiasm, “you did, after all, just volunteer to be the first man through the door.”

“Volunteer—door…Sir?” Vali blurted out a belated Sir, his eyes shooting toward the front door and then back to his team leader in one rapid motion.

“Why, yes, of course,” Grogan said pointing to the front door of the suburban house, “that one right there.”

“And when you say first man through…you mean I should do what?” he trailed off.

“Well, Lancer,” Grogan said with mock patience, “one generally knocks on a door before entering. Although, if you think the Admiral’s Mother will be more impressed with you kicking it down first and asking politely later, I suppose I’ll let you be the judge of that. Just remember that this is supposed to be a rescue mission. Read: no breakage.”

“Knock,” Vali said faintly, “breakage,” he added trying to imagine the reaction if he was the man who ‘broke’ the Little Admiral’s mother. His life wouldn’t be worth two spits…better to take a blaster bolt instead.

The Lieutenant’s good humor proved fleeting and when his nostrils flared ever so slightly, breath audibly being drawn into his lungs as he leaned forward the young Lancer gave a decisive nod and hurried away—away from his current commander and towards his ultimate commander’s mom.

This mission sucks more and more all the time, he decided. Still, he was a battle tested lancer and lancers didn’t give up, which was why it was with a feeling of great trepidation that he walked up and knocked on the door.

Chapter Twenty: Family Tensions

“That’s what you do here, Elaina?” Ishtaraaa asked, her voice dripping with disgust.

“It wasn’t the best party I’ve ever catered, dear. But at least it gets me out of the house,” Elaina said calmly.

“Going to the current center of power for this Star System also ‘gets you out of the house,’ or am I wrong?” Ishtaraaa mocked.

“I mean other than the Palace,” Elaina said with a sigh, “the atmosphere there can be a bit…stifling, at times. Especially with all the trouble your brother’s been causing.”

A look of revulsion crossed the younger woman’s face. “Elaina!” Ishtaraaa snapped.

“The proper term here, is ‘Mother’,” Elaina said serenely, “I know you don’t like to think of him as your brother and I realize how much you ‘dislike’ the culture assimilation necessary to live here, but you really must to work on the proper nomenclature, Ishtaraaa—at least when you’re here on Capria and we’re together.”

The younger woman’s lip curled.

“Besides, I am your sister-progenitor,” Elaina said wistfully, “even if you can’t acknowledge a familial tie to ‘him, ’is calling me ‘mother’ really so difficult?”

“That thing,” Ishtaraaa bit her tongue until it bled and then corrected herself, “forgiveness.”

“Granted, of course, my daughter,” Elaina replied.

By unspoken mutual assent, both women allowed a small pause to develop into a lull in the conversation. Elaina used this time to set out the china cups and pour some tea.

“He,” Ishtaraaa finally said, with deliberate emphasis, “is not my brother; he is a priority task. What is more, the genetic material he shares with me…with us, has been minimized and what is more,” she lowered her brow toward Elaina, “I am not sure it is…‘appropriate,’ let us say, to even think of him in such a manner—let alone speak that way!” So saying, she tossed back her tea in one big gulp, heedless of the heat of the liquid or the cultural conventions of the planetary population of which she was currently a part.

Elaina looked at the younger woman sadly. “This is not the Society,” she said and placing her tea cup down with a deliberate click. The younger woman opened her mouth to protest but she lifted a finger and said firmly, “I am not finished.”

Ishtaraaa settled back into her chair mutinously.

“But even if it were,” Elaina said as soon as it was obvious her daughter wasn’t about to interrupt, “there are protocols in place for interactions with outsiders, protocols you have deliberately insisted on flouting each and every chance you get.”

“We are the Society,” Ishtaraaa said with passion, “every one of us. And if I ignore a few of the more asinine conventions in the privacy of your domicile then what of it?”

“Oh Ishtaraaa,” Elaina sighed, “now I know how my own mother felt.”

Ishtaraaa looked at her with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.

“I was not an only child you know,” Elaina said, gazing into a past that only she could see.

“I was aware that your Sister-Progenitor had multiples,” Ishtaraaa said shortly.

“We were like night and day, mothe—,” she paused, “my Sister-Progenitor. We clashed constantly,” the older woman confided, “even though we shared as close to 100% the same genetic signature as to make no difference, it amazed me how much more like her my sister-sister was.”

“Does this little parable have a point?” Ishtaraaa growled.

“Her own Mother-Progenitor had been killed in action and her legacy was withdrawn from storage so that her unique genetic profile would not be lost,” Elaina sighed.

“As is protocol when one of the Hand is killed,” Ishtaraaa said flatly.

“My own Mother-Progenitor told me that someday, if she was lucky, I would have a sister-daughter of my own, one who would be just like me. So that I could experience all the same frustration,” she said fondly, “it looks like I did.”

Ishtaraaa slapped the table. “You’ve practically gone native, Elaina,” she rebuked her Sister-Progenitor, “we are not base-stock humans, aimlessly wandering about without a purpose or higher function. We are the Society! Our Tract has a long and distinguished history of service and accomplishments. I don’t understand why you insist on this primitive insistence on family bonds.”

“If not your love,” Elaina said serenely, “then at least he deserves your respect.”

“Respect!” Ishtaraaa flared, standing abruptly. “That you were forced to actually carry the child to term inside your body was barbaric. The fact that the next One’s mother must do so is even worse!” she shuddered. “But that you actually seemed to enjoy it…carrying that boy inside your body…is beyond the pale. We are not slaves to our biology, Elaina, and it is an insult to our entire Tract that we must cater to the primitives on this planet offering up one of us to the altar of their egos. Competing even so that a Sister is in a position to degrade herself each and every generation, until someday these imbeciles—these morons—these utter feckless luddites wise up and start using artificial wombs!”

“For someone who never has, and because of who her mother is, never will be in such a position, you certainly seem passionate about the matter,” Elaina said firmly. “I, on the other hand, who actually did carry a child the old natural way, did not remember minding it nearly as much.”

“They should have picked someone less native and more pure for the task,” Ishtaraaa said irritably.

“And that worked out so well for them, didn’t it?” Elaina said, raising an eyebrow.

Ishtaraaa flushed. “The One going rogue was a statistical improbability which will be accounted for, and the potential for such actions eliminated in future iterations,” she said evenly.

“Yes, the One with every advantage and equipped with a ‘pure,’ emotionless, heartless upbringing by a woman who would have despised everything about him except that he was a ‘priority task,’ and thus could not be despised, went rogue,” she said coolly. “While my Jason, who had every disadvantage including, by order of the Paragon herself, a failure to know his own heritage. Every disadvantage, except for a mother who actually cared for and yes, I’ll say it, loved him, proceeded to lay his hands on more of the critical pieces necessary for the resurrection than any One before him except Larry One!”

“He stumbled around in the dark like a complete and utter buffoon! Don’t you get it, Mother,” Ishtaraaa said, her voice dripping with scorn, “he practically had every critical component handed to him on a silver platter and still he manages to get his head handed to him. It’s all over the Society stellar-com! He’s to be tried, and then with all possible pomp and ceremony, executed by the Sector Assembly.”

Elaina’s features fell sorrowfully. “I read the report,” she said, looking down at her tea.

“As wrong as you are about everything else, you were right about one thing, though,” Ishtaraaa said grimly. “We should never have allowed a One of this day and age to grow up a heretic.”

“Oh, Ish,” Elaina said brokenheartedly, “why do you hate him so?”

“The Society has decided not to allow any resources to be used to aid or abet an escape,” her daughter said doggedly. “What is more, if by some miracle he does escape, he is to be executed—with prejudice,” she finished savagely.

“I know it was your choice to leave when he was still young, and it broke my heart but I never stood in your way. I sent you back home to be with our sisters not to learn all this hatred for fifty percent of humanity. Why all this vitriol for a boy, now a young man, whom you hardly even know?” Elaina asked.

“Vitriol! I’ll show you vitriol! I have in my hands a valid Kill Order from the Paragon herself. He’s listed as a threat to the resurrection!” Ishtaraaa said furiously, “and as for feelings about my ‘brother,’ he was nothing more and nothing less than a critical task. It’s time to get over him, Sister, and focus on your real family, not this cross-Tract duty you were saddled with,” she glared.

Elaina seemed to draw in upon herself and then she looked up at her daughter with a burning gaze. “I will never give up hoping for his life. So if the Paragon wants him dead, she’ll have to do it with her own hands.”

“You would chose him over us—over me,” Ishtaraaa said with surprise. “Don’t you realize that another Sister-Progenitor is already on her way here, ready to produce another One for the continuation of the Tract?”

“I will never give up on my son, whether he becomes a spare heir or not. Just as I will never give up on you, my Daughter, or the rest of our Sisters; I would and will fight for each and every one of you to my last breath,” she said with quiet strength and dignity.

Ishtaraaa shook her head, “So once again you choose him. You’d defy the Paragon over a bad growth like that defective little spud,” she hissed. Drawing herself up she frowned down at Elaina, “I never thought I’d say this, but you’ve devolved mother.”

“Love and caring are not a weakness, dear; they are a strength. I wish you were able to see that,” Elaina said with a hint of pity in her voice.

“I care for my sisters, deeply, and I love the Society with all my heart,” Ishtaraaa said coldly. “So while I do not relish your pain, Sister-Elaina, I will not deny that something inside me rejoiced when I received the order over the stellar com. For the longest time it felt like I was the only who could see him for what he really was: nothing but a Tract failure that should have been rejected at birth. It’s a relief that finally everyone else can see him for what he really is: a mistake.”

Elaina winced.“ I can’t stand idly by if there’s something I can do to help him,” Elaina quietly, “even if that puts us at odds.”

“I’ve always known you’d pick him over me,” Ishtaraaa with a shrug, “thanks for clarifying it, though.”

Elaina looked wounded. “I would do the same for you, Ishtaraaa, if Jason were waving around an execution writ and calling for your head,” Elaina said.

“Never happen in a million years,” the younger woman said dismissively, “but I suppose the thought is nice, in principle.”

Elaina stared at her daughter helplessly, and the two women looked at each other for the longest time until there was a knock on the door.

Chapter Twenty-One: The Door opened, you came in. One Heck of a day isn’t it?

“I’ll get that and see who it is,” Elaina said, standing gracefully and going to the door.

Ishtaraaa crossed her arms over her chest.

“Hello?” the older woman asked, opening the door.

“Elaina Three-Feathers?” asked the well-muscled young man with swarthy skin standing outside the door.

“Who’s asking?” Elaina asked with poise.

“Sorry, my name is Vali, Vali Funar,” he clarified.

“Very well, Vali Funar, whoever you are,” she said with a hint of a smile, “I am Elaina Three.”

“And you’re the mother of Jason Montagne,” the swarthy man asked with a frown as he looked her up and down.

Elaina narrowed her eyes and one hand crept around behind her back. Behind her, Ishtaraaa slowly stood up, her own hands going into the sleeves of her dress.

“Yes,” Elaina said, her smile disappearing.

The look of relief that crossed the young man’s face was almost alarming. “Great!” he said happily.

“It is really?” Elaina asked, her hand tightening on the hilt of a hidden vibro-dagger, the compact kind favored by palace ladies.

“Oh, yes,” he hastened to assure her.

“If you’d care to share,” Elaina prompted, motioning with her hand to ask for elaboration.

“Oh pardon me, my manners are terrible, my mother would—” the man cut himself off, “anyway, Mrs. Three.”

“Elaina will do fine,” she interrupted.

Vali cleared his throat.

“Sorry,” he muttered, “where was I?”

“You were about to tell me what you’re doing here,” she said calmly, “before I interrupted you.”

He nodded. “Mrs. Elaina,” he said and this time she stopped from interrupting him—if she did they would likely be here all day, “I’m here to rescue you.”

“Rescue?” she said, eyebrows rising fractionally.

“Yes,” he said eagerly.

“From what am I in need of rescue, pray tell?” Elaina asked coolly.

Vali blinked. “Why, from that murderous backstabber of a monarch, King James,” he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“So, you’re a revolutionary then,” Elaina said, starting to draw the knife.

“Me, a revolutionary?” Vali grinned and shook his head. “Nope; your son sent me.”

“That is quite impossible,” Ishtaraaa said from behind her.

“What?” Vali frowned at the younger woman as a perplexed look came over his face.

Elaina knew what he was seeing: a young woman who looked almost identical to her, except for fewer age lines around the face and a slightly fitter figure.

“I am aware of my son’s current location, you see,” Elaina said freeing the knife with a sigh, “so I know that it’s impossible for him to have sent you.”

“No,” Vali disagreed and then his face cleared, “oh, that! No, you see, we’re here under the order of his wife.”

“My son is married now, is he? I’m afraid this story gets further and further fetched by the moment,” Elaina said, and in one smooth motion placed the knife against the throat of the man, Vali Funar, causing him to freeze instantly.

“One twitch of this button and the vibro function activates, slicing through your throat like a hot knife through butter,” Elaina said conversationally. “So, why don’t we try this again? The name of the person and organization you’re working for, please.”

Vali gulped. “I’m here by order of Lady Akantha,” he wheezed.

“And who is this ‘Akantha’ that I should know or care who she is, or why she sends her minions?” Elaina said with a tight smile, “I said: who are you working for, boy?!”

“Just kill him, mother,” Ishtaraaa advised, “I doubt he knows anything useful.”

“It’s true. I’m just a Confederation Fleet Lancer and don’t know much of anything,” he said in a hoarse voice, “but I really was sent by the Admiral’s wife. She’s the Hold Mistress of Messene back on Tracto—not that I’d expect you to know what that means—and she told us to get his mother.”

“Us?” Elaina asked in a deadly voice the knife suddenly pressing close enough to draw blood.

“A Tracto Hold Mistress!” Ishtaraaa exclaimed, sounding more than a little shocked.

“We’ve got the place surrounded,” Vali said, looking to Elaina very much like a frightened rodent, “you can kill me and we’ll get you to safety.”

“It’s lies, Mother; it has to be,” Ishtaraaa shouted. “There’s just no way ‘he’ forged a union with those ‘people’.”

“I don’t know,” Elaina mused, “Jason was always better with a sword than he thought he was. Still, I do agree…it does sound a bit farfetched.”

“It’s the Murphy Honest Truth,” Vali said fervently.

“Well then,” Elaina said and returned the vibro-knife to the sheath concealed in her back, “if this is all some elaborate trap set by the King, I suppose there’s nothing for it but to spring it.”

“Thank you, Lady Elaina,” Vali said with feeling as he nervously rubbed his neck, “you won’t regret this.” Despite saying this, he took a step back and away from the woman—and her knife.

“We’ll see about that,” she frowned before adding, “you do know that the safest places for a knife attack are either in close or far enough that you’re out of range for a proper counter,” Elaina observed as she looked purposefully down at his feet. “Now, where you’re standing might feel safe but it’s actually just about the most dangerous place as you can get.”

Vali mouth hung open. “I should have remembered that,” he admitted.

“You can’t be serious, Mother!” Ishtaraaa growled, “We’re not going anywhere with this joker.”

“Hush, dear,” Elaina ordered. Ishtaraaa narrowed her eyes but maintained her silence as requested. Elaina started to turn away from the door and then said casually, “I do have one request.”

“Anything,” Vali said, seeming to hesitate as he started to take another step back before closing his eyes and staying put where he was.

“In addition to my daughter, I will need the company of an old friend to travel wherever it is you’re taking us,” she said stepping back.

“Uh, I’ll have to tell my boss,” Vali said.

“Your boss isn’t this Akantha, is it?” Elaina asked as if it were an idle question.

“No,” Vali said shaking his head rapidly.

“Pity,” Elaina sighed, “because if she really did marry my boy Jason, we have much to talk about.”

“She did!” he protested.

Elaina leaned forward and patted him on the cheek. “Of course, you have to say that,” she said piteously.

Vali stared at her.

“Come along inside now and I suppose you should invite your friends as well,” Elaina advised him. “I had better pack. How long did you say we’d be?”

“I didn’t,” Vali said quickly, “for that, you’ll have to talk with Grogan.”

“Grogan?” she asked.

“That would be my boss,” he replied matter-of-factly.

“Interesting,” Elaina replied as he entered the house.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Back in space

“We’ve just been spotted,” Isis shouted.

“They lit us up like a Christmas tree,” yelled the petty officer in nominal charge of the sensor section, “now that the main array’s just painted us, they’ll be locked onto us so tight there’s no way we’ll be able to break it and sneak off.”

“The time for hiding is over,” Akantha bared her teeth, “and the time for Vengeance is upon us!”

“Advise gunnery to keep a sharp eye out,” Gants said worriedly, “we don’t want any surprises to take us by…well, surprise.”

Akantha frowned at him but let it go. “Status update on the Primarch,” she asked irritably.

“The quick reaction squadrons are still pursuing him on the other side of the system, Hold Mistress,” Isis reported with hungry smile.

“The gates are open,” Akantha said with deep satisfaction.

“Uh,” Gants looked over at her, “there are no gates in space…outside a space dock maybe.”

“It is a metaphor, a figure of speech,” she snapped, holding onto her patience with both hands.

“Right,” Gants said still looking confused and shrugging it off he turned back to the sensor section, “go to active scan if you haven’t already done so.”

“Already off passives, Sir, the moment they painted us,” replied the petty officer in a no-nonsense, alto voice.

“Well, good,” Gants said temporarily looking at a loss, “has anyone notified the Armory Team to gear up yet?”

“On it now, First Officer,” replied the buck-toothed com-tech.

“Orbital fortresses going active; they’re spinning up their shields and beginning to rotate the forts,” reported the Sensor Petty Officer.

“How long before we are within range?” Akantha demanded.

“Another hour and a half, Mistress,” Isis said tightly.

“World of Men,” Akantha swore, “these sensors are a curse. You can see everything the enemy has hours before they arrive and they you. Even our new stealth systems can’t get us into attack range before being spotted.”

“The Caprian System Defense Fleet is largely out of position, my lady,” Gants reminded her, “that could never have happened without the stealth systems the Chief installed.”

“I should not complain,” Akantha said, but her expression was mutinous and at odds with her words of reconciliation. Gants wisely remained silent, and she frowned at him. “Has the citadel sent out the attack signal for our advance scout teams yet?”

“Contact,” screamed the Petty Office in Sensors, and Akantha’s head whipped around.

“Report,” Gants cried.

“Two medium cruisers that were sitting in the dark just started spinning up their fusion generators. They were supposed to be orbiting a supply dump two planets over,” replied the Petty officer. “A ruse?” Akantha demanded.

“Maybe they have more medium cruisers than we thought,” Gants interjected.

“How long before they can come at us, those mediums?” Akantha asked curtly.

The Petty Officer looked back at her with a dumbfounded expression and shrugged, after which the officer at damage control cleared his throat.

“Yes, Lieutenant?” Akantha encouraged.

“A cold start would require two to four hours to bring the generators up from a full stand down mode,” he reported.

“How likely is it two cruisers were floating in the river between the stars with their generators completely shut off?” Akantha shook her head.

“If they were just in standby mode, maybe an hour to an hour and a half,” the Damage Control officer said helplessly.

“So…it will be a race between us,” Akantha concluded, and every eye on the bridge turned back to stare at those cruisers.

“Helm,” Gants cleared his throat, “we won’t be making any deadlines at this speed.

The Helmsman, a swarthy looking Promethean, jumped out of his chair.

“Increasing engine speed from max-stealth to full burn now,” the Helmsman reported hunching down in his chair.

“Those smaller ships I see on the screen,” Akantha pointed, “are those the corvettes we spotted earlier?”

The Petty Officer at Sensors started and Akantha noted Isis give the Petty Officer a gimlet eye.

“Yes. Sorry, milady,” the Petty Officer said in a small voice.

“We must all do our utmost, Bridge Crew and fellow warriors, if we are to defeat our foes and lay waste to his defenses. Do not let me down,” Akantha said shortly and turned away from the now red faced woman at Sensors.

Subdued the bridge crew of the Strike Cruiser variously stood, sat or walked their duty stations in a greater silence than before the scolding, as the Strike Cruiser leapt forward on the screen.

But while the crew was still reeling from their failures anyone who looked at her could tell that their current captain was only ever eager to come to grips with the foe.

Soon the waiting would be over.

However, twenty five minutes after being exposed to the inner sensor array of the Caprian home world, something happened with the potential to change the entire game.

“Contact,” screamed the Sensor Petty Officer, genuine fear in her voice.

“Report,” Gants said.

“It’s the Parliamentary Power,” the Petty Officer replied nervously as she pointed to the more complete of the two battleships still sitting in the shipyard, “one of her generators just started fluctuating wildly up and down, from what looks like a cold start to within three quarters of full power…three of the other four generators are coming up also. I can’t explain it!”

“My lady,” Gants said urgently, “if they can get a battleship up and running before we get within firing range of that battleship our plan…sweet, crying Murphy, Captain. If she can even just man the turbo lasers on one side of her gun deck, our plan will be shot to pieces.”

Akantha clenched the hilt of her Bandersnatch so tightly that all of her knuckles popped.

“We are not without resources, First Officer,” Akantha said tightly before rounding on the helm, “spur the engines. We must go faster than their fastest.”

“Yes, Lady,” the Helmsman said with a strangled voice.

“I’ll speak with engineering, Lady Akantha,” the Damage Control Lieutenant stated somewhat meekly, “however, things have been a little disarrayed since you brigged the previous Chief Engineer.”

Akantha’s mouth opened in a silent snarl.

Chapter Twenty-Three: A Name to Conjure By

“Prepare to regulate the internal plasma flow, Anton,” Tiberius ordered, clapping the man on the shoulder. He then took a running leap, with one hand outstretched to help guide him over the second level hand rail, and he cleared the protective barrier before falling to the duralloy grating a level below.

Landing on both feet, he fell forward into a skin-scraping roll that ended with him back on his feet in a staggering run that slowly lost its power and ended in a fast, hopping, limp the last few meters to Fusion Five.

“The first seed didn’t take; the fusion core’s still too cold for full ignition,” Tiberius said hurrying over to the auxiliary station built into the side of the generator. “Ready to introduce the second seed yet, Penelope?” he asked, his words a staccato drum beat.

“The station was intended for manual control of a fusion generator when the main computer is down, Lieutenant,” the power room tech said, looking at him with wild eyes, “it wasn’t meant to be used to bypass the safety lockouts! You know—the ones requiring the consent and command crystals of the Captain and Chief Engineer himself!”

“Right, but the seed; is it in position or not?” he asked irritably, brushing aside her concern.

“Yes, it and the heavy load suit you automated are in position,” Penelope the power room tech stomped her foot.

“Excellent,” he said, brushing past her in his haste to reach the manual plasma release valve. It was only intended for use in the case of an emergency core breach, in the event the reactor couldn’t be automatically ejected into cold space.

Penelope squeaked as she was thrust up against the auxiliary console. “Watch out Lieutenant,” she protested.

“Sorry, Pen,” he offered, activating the data-slate built into the reactor just above the manual valve. It had a limited data set it could tap into, but for this purpose all he needed was to be able to monitor the plasma levels, which was exactly what the slate at this junction was designed to do. “Engineering, this is the Lieutenant,” he called out in a loud, carrying shout, “Men! As you love your Free Elections, prepare for injection of the second seed!”

“Sir…Tiberius,” Penelope all but shouted to be heard over the sounds of cheering that thundered through Main Engineering, “you can’t just keep setting off nuclear explosions in the fusion core! We were lucky to survive the last blast without a meltdown or containment breach, and as it is the core still didn’t get hot enough to achieve self-sustaining levels.”

“Uh-huh,” Tiberius said taking a step toward her and leaned over to hit the flashing, red, hot key they had programmed onto the screen of auxiliary station for seed insertion.

“What?” Penelope yelped, “what are you doing?! We can’t abort now; I was just about to tell you how I was worried about the core’s protective wall!”

“Oops,” Tiberius said unrepentantly. Then, ignoring the tech, he hurried back to the manual valve.

“Oops! All you can say is a blasted ‘oops?!’ You filthy, unwashed, Engineering blighter,” she yelled as her console started flashing and there was the faint sound of a ‘bang!’ inside the fusion generator. After that, there was no time for conversation as her fingers flew over the console as she tried to stave off a critical chain reaction.

“That’s Engineering Officer to you, Power Room Tech,” Tiberius laughed as the slate in front of him measured critical heat levels in the cooling conduits before him. He began turning the emergency valve the faintest fraction open.

“We’re overheating!” the Power Tech cried, repeatedly stabbing on the same button on her console as if through repetition and by sheer force of will she could keep the reactor from exploding, “we have to eject, Sir!”

“Never,” Tiberius roared, hauling on the emergency relief valve with all his might.

“I’d follow you into the dark, Sir, but we can’t risk losing this ship; it’s a battleship! Let someone else deal with the pirates,” Penelope yelled back as the core rapidly cycled from overheated to cold and then back to overheated.

“We’re going to send these pirates straight to Hades!” the young Caprian Lieutenant screamed, hauling with all his might to force the valve that last fraction of a centimeter open.

The temperature spiked—this time beyond critical levels—and Penelope opened her mouth to scream, when suddenly the temperature mix stabilized to something within survivable limits.

“We did it, Lieutenant,” she shrieked, jumping away from her console and dancing around.

“Second time’s the charm,” Tiberius grinned.

Overcome with the sheer excitement of being alive, the Power Tech jumped into his arms and planted a sloppy kiss right on the Lieutenant’s mouth.

Tiberius went stiff in her arms and stared at the small woman, utterly stunned.

The sound of duralloy boots clanging on the decking behind them caused the pair to spring apart. “Sorry, Sir,” Penelope said blushing prettily, “it won’t happen again.

“That’s quite all…right,” Tiberius said, still completely stunned. Then the owner of the boots reached them and came to a metal pounding halt.

“What kind of happy, love boat style operation are you running down in this dark hole, Lieutenant?!” the armored man in a modern battle-suit demanded with genuine outrage in his voice. He was obviously referring to both the kiss and the fact that only half the lighting was operational in Main Engineering.

“It’s my fault, Master Chief,” Penelope said ducking her head and backing away to the auxiliary console she really should have been womanning.

“Err, Master Chief,” Tiberius said looking taken aback and then he produced a satisfied smile, “you can inform the Shore Patrol that Fusion Five is back online; this ship can fight again, Chief!”

“Inform the Shore Patrol? I am the blasted Shore Patrol,” the Master Chief snarled, “and you’re this close to an Article 7: Fraternization without cause,” he snapped, holdup up a thumb and pointer finger less than an inch apart and snapping them together for emphasis.

“I said I could get us power before those pirates arrived, and by the Demon that’s what I’ve done,” Tiberius said, jutting out his jaw. “With this one up and running close to full tilt, we can set up the cross linkages and have the other four up to half power by the time those raiders poke their noses inside turbo-range.”

“You’ve already broken half a dozen regulations, tampering with the core and using automation to jump start the infernal thing,” the Master Chief said with a wary look at Fusion Generator Five, “setting off atomics inside the generators of all things.” He sighed irritably, “So what’s another regulation mangled and destroyed?”

“I used an automated suit because only an idiot unable to rig one up or a fool with a death wish would actually go inside an unstable fusion generator, let alone stay inside like regulation calls for during any and all core repairs and operations—not when you’re deliberately setting off a nuclear reaction,” the Lieutenant said coldly. “But regulation or no regulation, as the Acting Chief Engineer, I have the authority to waive such requirements in an emergency. If you don’t like the results then you’re free to throw me in the brig and put another Engineer in charge of this…” his mouth twisted, “’dark hole of a love boat’ I think you called it?”

The Master Chief got right in his face at that. “You’ve pulled off one miracle of engineering, just getting the one fusion generator up from a cold start,” the older man said, deliberately thumping the Tiberius in the chest, “that’s why I’m going to give you the chance to work another and get the other four up and running!”

Tiberius pointed to one of the Fusion reactors which was almost half assembled. “I don’t know about four…not in the time we have available, but as the angry Space Gods are my witness I’ll have the other three up and running before that Raider hits orbit or my name isn’t T.T.,” he swore, making an X across his chest, “cross my heart and hope to vote.”

The Master Chief’s nose wrinkled as he stared at the younger man, but Tiberius met his gaze levelly.

“For your sake, they had better be, Mr. Spalding,” the Master Chief said flatly.

“Lieutenant, Tiberius, or a simple T.T. will do, Chief Aubertine,” Tiberius said coldly, his eyes flaring with quickly concealed anger, “Mr. Spalding is, and always has been, my father.”

“See that it is then. If we’re going to actually have some power on this wreck, I need to go and see about scrounging up a crew to run the helm and the gun deck,” Master Chief Aubertine said, thumping him in the chest a final time before quickly striding away.

“We can get her out of space dock from Engineering,” Tiberius called out after him.

Chief Aubertine hesitated midstride, shrugged and then continued walking. “You do that,” he called over his shoulder.

“You heard the man,” the young Spalding roared, “we’ve got a trio of fusion generators yet to heat up! Belinger and Cairre, I’m going to need more power conduits. Penelope,” he began before looking around for the power room tech.

“Here, Sir,” she raised a hand.

He stared at her and started tapping his foot. “Well,” he said abruptly, “what are you waiting for, an engraved invitation? Fusion Four won’t kindle herself!”

“On it, Boss!” she called out in a sing song voice. Snapping off a salute, she snatched up her personal slate from Fusion Five’s auxiliary control console and scurried over to Fusion Four.”

Tiberius looked around at the slow-moving, under-strength engineering crew and slapped his hands together.

“What are you lot waiting for; these generators aren’t going to light themselves. I said move!” he shouted.

The Engineering crew gave a cheer and picked up the pace even further.

“We’re going to show these raiders or these pirates or whatever they call themselves, that no one messes with the People of Capria and their Freely Elected Government!” he cried.

Chapter Twenty-Four: A Rush Job

“We’ve just received a priority one message from the ship, Captain,” reported the Caprian Corporal in charge of the comm. gear. “It’s time to move up the time table. It appears one of our targets is getting a little frisky and word is the other half of the company is being diverted to help assist with the capture but it will take them a while to get here.”

“Good job, Maurice,” Darius said with a frown, “relay our acceptance to the Citadel.”

There was a pause.

“Don’t you mean ‘our acknowledgement to the ship’?” Corporal Maurice asked.

“Reply in whatever words they will understand when it is appropriate to do so,” Darius said impatiently.

“Yes, Sir,” replied the Corporal.

“At least the road bandits will get the chance to prove their worth and work off some of their shame,” the captain sighed.

“You mean the former pirates we captured? The Piranhas and Deep Fleeters, Captain?” asked Maurice.

“I mean the War slaves the Hold Mistress has accepted into her Banner,” Darius said flatly.

“Of course, Sir,” Maurice replied before muttering a few words that sounded suspiciously anti-slavery—words almost brazen enough to force the captain to take notice.

“Silence over the com,” Darius snapped.

“Sorry, Captain,” muttered Maurice.

“Can you communicate to the scum through the whiskers to let them know the new plan?” the captain demanded.

“The whisker laser is almost impossible to trace unless they get between me and whoever I’m talking to. But unlike the newer suits, these old battle-suits don’t auto link and network transfer my signal to the intended recipient. Meaning, I’d have to individually line up my laser and make contact with each and every one of the former pirat—I mean, slaves. It would probably take too long; we’d be there before I could tell them all the new plan,” replied Maurice.

“A simple ‘It would take too long’ would have sufficed,” Darius grunted, “if I want the longer explanation, I will ask for it.”

“Sorry, Sir,” Maurice said crisply, clearly feeling no shame over his excessive talking.

“At any rate, it does me no ill to leave those slaves to rot inside their suits a while longer,” Darius said finally.

“Trapped inside their suits without even so much as the ability to turn their heads for the better part of a day, and no contact with the outside world—except the positional plot on their face plate,” Maurice said with relish. “You are a cruel, cruel man, Captain Darius. I don’t understand why Captain Atticus gets all the free press. He’s just loud and obnoxious; it’s the quiet ones you’ve got to watch out for I always say.”

“Well, that rules you out as someone to watch,” Darius said with quiet humor.

Maurice choked with laughter. “You cut me to the quick, Captain,” he eventually chuckled.

“Enough chatter,” Darius said, “it’s time to be ‘mission focused,’ as Colonel Suffic would have put it.”

“Of course, Sir,” Maurice replied curtly, his demeanor turning serious immediately.

****************************************************

“I’m picking up something strange on the sensor feed, Commander,” said the old, grey haired rating.

Commander Mollin hurried over to the single operating sensor console in the entire shipyard and leaned over the rating’s shoulder.

“What have you got for me, Boyle?” he asked urgently. “Does it look like the pirate is moving in our direction?”

“No, Sir; she’s still on course for a zero-zero intercept with the planet itself. No sign she’s after us,” Boyle said, shaking his head, “what I’m picking up is some kind of faint grav-signature. But I haven’t seen anything like it since before they retired the old grav-boards the Royal Marines still used to practice deep space insertion maneuvers. But that’s impossible. I mean the Yard’s sensors were calibrated to pick up those exact grav-signatures and there’s no way a pirate is using old Caprian gear. It has to be a mistake of some kind. We tried locating a strike team using both some off brand gear used by another SDF and we couldn’t pick up their signals for spit.”

Commander Mollin’s blood ran cold. “Blast it! We barely have a skeleton crew at the best of times in the Command Center of this yard, and now most of our people are over there desperately trying to get the Double-P into action.” Mollin clapped Doyle on the shoulder, “Tie your sensor feed directly to the Tactical channel, then run over and fire up the point defense lasers.”

“Yes, Sir,” the seasoned rating said, unhurriedly activating the data transfer before moving at speed to the tactical console.

“Worst case, we just blow up a few rocks and sensor ghosts,” the Commander breathed, diving into his command chair and pulling up the red alert function. Slamming his hand onto the hot key, station lighting turned red and an alert klaxon sounded.

“Point defense warming up, Sir. It’ll take a while for the computer to boot up and then transfer energy from the generators to the laser banks,” Doyle informed the Commander. “I still don’t see how any half-arsed pirate got his hands on our old gear. All of that stuff was destroyed along with the old royalist ships.”

“Didn’t you see the data package that just came in on the fast courier from Central today?” the Commander demanded impatiently. “If you did then you’d know as well as I do that up until recently there was one ship out there that still had old Caprian Royalist gear on board her.”

Doyle looked at him in surprise. “Sure, they caught another loony Montagne and from the sounds of it he’s in for the long drop when Central gets done prosecuting him. But his spree of terror’s over and done with; they got him locked up safe and sound on a dungeon ship and the Battleship is back in SDF hands.”

“They call him the ‘Tyrant of Cold Space’ and that isn’t the kind of nickname they give to the ineffectually insane. That’s what they call a real terror of the space ways,” Mollin stated, with rising emotion.

“I still don’t see—” Doyle stared.

“Don’t you see!” the Commander cried. “They only captured one ship! You don’t terrorize the space ways in a big, lumbering battleship like the Lucky Clover.”

“Oh, Sweet Murphy,” Doyle breathed as recognition flashed across his features.

“If he turned a battleship full of Caprian Royalists—and not just plain old Royalist but Montagne Royalists—then who knows what they’re capable of,” Mollin said, tapping furiously on his command screen trying to bring up Yard’s minimal defenses as rapidly as possible. “So we took a battleship, locked him up and put him on trial, what did we think he’d do?”

“Some Princeling we’d never even heard of before is masterminding an attack from within jail?!” Doyle blurted incredulously. “That’s pretty farfetched, Sir, if you don’t mind my saying so. What would they even hope to gain?”

“We’ve got a nearly re-commissioned battleship, and the one thing that’s just about guaranteed to get him out of jail!” Mollin said furiously.

Doyle looked taken aback.

“Have you ever heard of a thing Called Diplomatic Immunity,” Mollin seethed, “it’s a little thing we give to Ambassadors. Well, how much more diplomatic immunity do they give to Heads of State?!” “Not even a Montagne is that insane,” Doyle countered in a tense voice. “He can’t really expect to take over the entire Caprian system with a pair of corvettes running a distraction maneuver and single medium cruiser, no matter how stealthy!”

Mollin stabbed a finger toward the main screen. “Insane like trying to make an attack run on a heavily defended core world like Capria with a single medium cruiser—one that continues its attack run even after its spotted!” he riposted.

“Sweet, crying Murphy,” Doyle breathed, “that’s just the kind of insane, ‘never say die’ maneuver a Montagne would actually think to try out.”

“He and his fanatic crew probably think they have nothing left to lose,” the Commander said heavily.

“I pray to all the merciful space gods you’re wrong and we’re making a mountain out a few sensor ghosts and a mole hill,” Doyle breathed.

“The last Montagne they gave command of a battleship to, they only made a Captain and he was considered a genius back in his day,” Mollin replied. “They made this one an Admiral, and from what Central’s saying through the media reports, he earned his rank by wading through the blood of his many victims.”

“How the Hades did they even capture him then?” Doyle demanded.

“It takes a Montagne to catch a Montagne. They sent Jean Luc and a crew loyal to Capria to pin him down,” the Commander replied grimly, “and apparently they still couldn’t get all of his people.”

“Bugger me,” Doyle shook his head.

Chapter Twenty-Five: Where only fools rush in

On approaching the yard, grav-signatures flare as the Lancers maneuvered their boards around for a rapid deceleration. Behind them, with computer-like precision, the accompanying force of former pirates who had volunteered for service with the Hold Mistress over the choice of execution for their many crimes, spun around like tops. The reason for their precision was because no one trusted them not to give away their position through some sort of stupid mistake, so their suits had been locked into training mode for the duration.

As they rapidly approached the yard, space erupted with laser fire as the single functional point defense laser on the station flared rapidly, lancing out into the darkness between the station and it would be invaders.

Several of the pirates were hit by the rapid-fire weapon, along with one Lancer, but aside from that the weapon appeared to have been largely ineffectual.

Several minutes after coming under fire, the Lancer attack force and their pirate ‘volunteers’ were passing through the girders and outer arms of the old Ship Yard. Moments after that, they were landing on the very familiar profile of a Dreadnaught Class Battleship.

“Go, go, go,” Darius screamed over the com-unit.

“First Squad, head toward airlock 37; Second Squad will take 38,” came the calm and steady voice of the Company Sergeant.

“Let’s move it, lad,” Darius ordered, and when he saw that a number of suits were clumped together on the hull of the ship, he cursed, “World of Men. Someone get a squad over here and drag these slaves into an airlock. I’m not going to activate their send function until we’re actually inside the ship. The last thing we need is poor com-discipline right now.”

“Yes, Sir,” replied the Caprian Company Sergeant. “Alright, you sorry lot, you can’t send but can you sure as Larry One lived receive. So get your sorry hindquarters over to the airlocks; you don’t want me to have to move you,”’ the sergeant emphasized his words with a kick and a shove as he dived in amongst the floaters.

Ignoring the drama going on outside, Darius followed Second Squad into the ship. Speed was of the essence if the readings they had been forwarded were any indication. They could not allow the battleship to get into the fight…unless it was on their side.

“Follow me, warriors,” Darius said, waving his arm toward the airlock before cycling through it. After hours of shooting through space attached to nothing but a full-body grav-board, he was finally inside his target. Out in space he had nothing but time to realize just how small and insignificant he was among the river of stars. While the Captain was not as loud or flashy as Atticus, he was still Tracto-an enough to desire some payback for what he had just endured.

The Lyconese captain had heard it passed through the grapevine that the Hold Mistress had a name for her pain: King James. Well Lancer Captain also had a name, and the cause for his hours of suffering in the void that was the river between the stars now lay all around him. The Parliamentary Power was the reason he was out here, and it was time it felt his own wrath.

****************************************************

“Captain, we’ve got a problem,” the Company Sergeant said over a private channel, one that only he and the Captain could access.

“What is wrong?” Darius asked.

“It’s the pirates, Sir,” the Sergeant said angrily, “all the ones you had me and the boys drag through the airlocks; they’re not right in the head.”

“Explain,” the Captain ordered.

“They’re space-crazed, Sir,” the Sergeant fumed, “pirates aren’t the most stable individuals to begin with and it seems that being locked into a suit they couldn’t control for hours and hours on end has scrambled something in their brains. Apparently pirates don’t put the same emphasis on deep space training that the Core does.”

“The darkness between the Stars can be intimidating but I don’t remember us undergoing any special training,” the Lyconese Captain said suspiciously.

The Company Sergeant cleared his throat, sounding suspiciously like he was embarrassed. “Well, you Lyco boys were late arrivals and we didn’t have time for the training Suffic scheduled for the rest of the Lancers. Unfortunately it was more of a trial by fire situation than I was entirely comfortable with but you guys did just fine.”

“Anything the Sons of Argos can do, a Lyconese can do as well,” Darius growled.

“Never said it was otherwise,” the Company Sergeant assured him.

“Good,” the Captain said more calmly. “So what can we do to make the weak-willed slaves useful again.”

“I’m not sure,” the Sergeant said slowly.

“Maybe the lash would motivate them?” Darius said hopefully.

“Perhaps but…that might take too long,” the Sergeant said cautiously.

“And we are in a rush,” Captain Darius said decisively and then nodded. “Alright, here is what we’re going to do. I want you to fire a bolt right next to each man’s head and ask him if he wants to live. If he does, send him about his task.”

“And if he doesn’t?” the Sergeant sounded worried.

“Lock them in a secure compartment; they can face the judgment of the Hold Mistress after our success,” he said grimly.

“Right,” the Sergeant said slowly.

“And hurry it up; this has taken too long already. I’m going to leave you second squad to get the slaves organized, the rest of us will proceed with the mission,” the Captain said gathering up his men with a sweep of his hands.

“Yes, Captain,” the Sergeant agreed.

“To Battle,” Darius shouted and the Lancers around him cheered as they rushed after him, deeper into the ship.

Chapter Twenty-Six: A Spirited Defense is the best Offense

“We’ve got borders,” Master Chief shouted, barreling into Main Engineering. “I need volunteers to help repulse them, and by volunteers I mean half your work party.”

“How the blazes am I supposed to get this ship ready for combat when you take away half my men?” Tiberius fumed.

“Look, Spalding, it’s either I get the crew I need to suppress these buggers or within the next hour you’ll have a nicely running ship to hand over to the pirate boarders,” the Master Chief snapped. “So you can operate these engines as their tame slave—assuming they don’t just kill you outright as pirates are known to do—or you can help me pull our chestnuts out of the fire. Your call.”

The Lieutenants lips twisted angrily and then turning only his head he called out over his shoulder. “Pratt, Amils, stop working on those Generators and gather your teams. We have hostiles on board. Master Chief Aubertine will give you further instructions.”

The Master Chief gave the Engineering officer a deliberate nod of respect.

“Come on, lads,” Chief Aubertine yelled, motioning toward the nearest lift, “I’ve got a couple pallets with a few surprises for our new friends.”

As the members of the two engineering teams stream past the Engineering Lieutenant, Petty Officer Pratt stopped long enough to throw off a salute and say, “We’ll show those blighters why you don’t mess with Engineering, Sir!”

Tiberius’ fists clenched down at his side but he mustered up a confident smile for the men. “No one’s got more grit and determination than you, boys; give them what for and show them why they don’t ever want to tangle with the Caprian SDF!” he said.

“Yes, Sir!” Pratt shouted in excited agreement before hurrying off.

The Engineering Lieutenant stared after the retreating backs of the shipyard engineering crew.

“You okay, Lieutenant?” Penelope asked placing a hand on his shoulder.

Tiberius shrugged it off. “These engines aren’t going to rebuild themselves,” he growled.

“Don’t you mean the fusion reactors won’t light themselves?” Penelope asked hopefully.

“Right,” Tiberius said, turning back to his work. He was already doing the jobs of two men with one. Now it would be one man for what should have been the jobs of four! Still, he was an engineer and if there was one thing he’d learned, it was that there was always a way.

As he directed his remaining work teams, however, the young engineer recognized that he no longer faced only the lone ‘impossible task’ of getting the reactors going before that pirate warship showed up. He now had to factor in boarders as well! In the back of his fertile, young mind, wheels started spinning and the beginnings of a plan sprouted.

****************************************************

“Who are these jokers, Master Chief?” Petty Officer Begue said with disbelief as they watched a trio of figures in old style Caprian battle-suits locked several of their comrades into a compartment before welding the door shut.

On another screen, a large group of pirates bumbled around, randomly smashing equipment seemingly to blow off some frustration. While on yet a third screen, what looked like several well trained squads had broken down into battle-quads and were rapidly heading for the critical systems of the ship.

“The telling part to me is that the ones that appear to be professionals are heading directly toward our key systems without passing go or collecting a thousand credits,” Aubertine said grimly. “That and the way they’re bypassing our automatic lockouts means they either have a detailed plan of the Parliamentary Power—or are very familiar with the Dreadnaught Class.”

“Blast,” Begue said with quiet force.

“We can forget about these jokers over here for the moment,” he said pointing to the second screen. “They seem to be taking their time and wander around a bit, possibly lost, before eventually finding their way back on track,” Aubertine said, rubbing his chin.

“General crew to run the ship after they take it, you think?” posited Begue.

“That would explain why the jokers are so slow. Plus if they are crew then that makes these others some kind of professional merc group,” Aubertine frowned, “you just don’t get this kind of rapid movement and unit cohesion out of most pirate outfits.”

“Well, whoever they are, I don’t like the looks of them,” Petty Officer Begue said. “There’s got to be over a hundred of the dastards on the ship already. What’s to keep more of them from coming on board?”

Aubertine opened his mouth to reply but his com-link chimed. Frowning, the Master Chief accepted the incoming call. It was the Commander Mollin over in the Shipyard Command, judging by the icon on the link, and he raised a finger haltingly as the Commander started speaking.

“Yes, Sir. I understand,” he said, closing the link when the Commander had finished.

“Anything?” Begue asked. “Do they have anyone else to send over to us?”

“No more reinforcements,” Aubertine said with a shake of his head, “but they’re keeping the point defense up fully and have requested reinforcements from the Marine Corps.”

“Bad news then,” Begue sighed.

“Worse,” the Master Chief growled, and Begue lifted an eyebrow. “The Commander thinks we could be dealing with a Montagne, or at least his outraged followers. They’re calling him the Tyrant of Cold Space and holding him over at Central. The Commander thinks we could be dealing with some kind of insane attempt to overthrow the government in order to get this Montagne some sort of diplomatic immunity and at least save him from execution.”

“Sweet, crying Murphy,” Begue breathed and the two men shared a hard look. “We can’t let them get their hands on this ship,” the Petty Officer said seriously.

“Over my dead body,” Aubertine growled.

“Let’s go kill us some pirate Revolutionaries,” Begue agreed solemnly.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: On the Gun Deck of the Furious Phoenix

“Come on, you lazy dogs,” Lesner shouted, “new orders from the Bridge; we’ve just got targeting solutions. It’s time to build the fire and light the Pyre!”

“Revenge,” raged an Assistant Gunner to a couple hear-hears.

“The Phoenix!” shouted a nearby Grease Monkey, and a number of scattered cheers broke out.

Lesner frowned before drawing in a breath. “For the Lucky Clover!” he screamed.

A pair of heartbeats passed with no response. “The Clover!!!” roared the gun deck belatedly, but with clear conviction as several men started stamping their feet.

“It’s time to get the blighters what did us wrong,” screamed that same, lone voice that had called for revenge.

The rhythmic stamping of feed that had started near the new Chief Gunner quickly picked up the pace and was spread across the gun deck, drowning out the still raging Assistant Gunner.

Lesner peered down with a gimlet eye at the man who was by now frothing at the mouth, spittle flying with every drowned out word and shaking a plasma torch at the ceiling.

Surreptitiously, he activated a medical alert and quietly ordered a pair of orderlies sent over to check on the man.

Turbo-lasers started to hum as they entered extreme range, and the Gunners of the Phoenix gleefully lashed out with their new Imperial style turbo-lasers while still outside the best range of their counterparts home grown Caprian SDF style weapons technology.

Realizing he was falling behind on his own duties, Lesner leaned over his own targeting screen, his own turbo-laser whining beneath him as the gun adjusted minutely while he pressed the firing stub.

It was with a deep feeling a satisfaction that he watched his targeting sensor report a hit on the Orbital Fortress he was aiming at.

Lesner pumped his fist in the air. He may have been a touch slow on the uptick but it was the number of bolts on target that counted, not random shots slung out through the void.

He leaned over the targeting screen, his smile that of a hungry wolf. When he had left Capria the last time, he’d done so as an emigrant, expecting to never again see the beautiful blue world beneath him. He certainly had never imagined returning behind a wall of laser blasts but it was no less than Parliament and that blighter James deserved.

“Did you miss me?” he howled at the screen as he lined up another shot at the orbital platform. As expected, the screen did not answer him but the Chief Gunner was long past caring.

“How do you like the wrath of a Caprian betrayed?!” he screamed, depressing the double firing trigger. “Long live the Confederation!”

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Kicking into Overdrive

“Yee-haw!” Gant cried, his voice rising to a painful shriek that blasted from one end of the bridge to the other. “The Orbital Fortress is taking a pounding, Captain!”

Akantha put a pinkie in her ear and wiggled it in an effort to dispel the sudden ringing sound his voice had caused. “Pay mind to my hearing while expressing your exuberance, Mr. Gants,” she said sharply.

“Sorry, my lady,” he said looking at her so much like a child who had just been scolded for roughhousing that she couldn’t stay mad at him long.

“We are beating down his shields, Mistress,” Isis reported in a no-nonsense, yet somehow still bloodthirsty, voice as the main-screen began to reflect shield spotting.

“Keep our distance, Helmsman,” Akantha instructed, “like any halfway competent swordsman we must continue to make full use of our longer reach!”

Sweat pouring off his forehead, the war slave gave a jerky nod as he acknowledged the order.

“What’s the status on those medium cruisers, Sensors?” Gants asked.

“Still sling-shotting around the home world, First Officer,” the Petty Officer at Sensors reported crisply. “They should be coming around at any time.”

Akantha looked over at Gants sourly. “What are the odds that the second medium cruiser is now operational?” she inquired in a low voice.

“If they’re no longer connected with bucking cables, I think we’ll know the answer,” Gants replied with a frown. However, a new smile soon popped back on his face, “But this is a sweet ship. I think we’ll make short work of ’em so long as they don’t manage to pin us down between them and the forts.” Akantha settled back irritably. Actually, being in combat was nowhere near as bad as all the hours on end sprinting towards their opponent before getting within range. Sitting in a chair while smiting her enemies still took some getting used to, but she reminded herself that this was similar to a Hold Mistress’s duties if and when she was under siege. It was her duty to perform this role of sending men here and there to shore up defenses, while remaining a potent unifying symbol from safely behind the walls.

“I’m reading a series of explosions, First Officer,” the Sensor Petty Officer reported in a rising voice.

“Where at?” Gants asked quickly.

“I’m reading external explosions on two Orbital Fortresses and three of the defensive turrets,” she said excitedly.

“The Advance Teams, my lady,” Gants turned to Akantha with shinning eyes.

“We must think of a suitable reward for them upon their return,” she said with satisfaction.

“My lady, I’m picking up point defense fire from all four of the Orbital Forts,” the Sensor Petty Officer reported sickly.

Gants brow wrinkled, “Whatever are they firing at?”

Akantha closed her eyes. The raiders had struck their targets and now the archers on the walls were belatedly firing upon them as they escaped.

“There is only one thing out there to fire upon, First Officer,” she said, opening her eyes.

“Oh, blast,” Gants said in a small voice.

“We shall return home carrying our shields or lying atop them,” Akantha said dispassionately. “For anyone who is vaporized or cannot be found after the battle, a shield shall be constructed of the finest duralloy and returned to their family in their stead.”

“Wow, that’s pretty…morbid,” Gants said shaking his head.

“This is war,” Akantha replied simply, clenching the hilt of her sword for comfort.

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Breaking News

“This is your home branch of the Cosmic News Network; I’m Mathilda May. We come to you with an Interstellar Update as well as breaking news on everything you wanted to know on the Domestic Front,” said the light-skinned news anchor. “First, we’re going to the Galactic News Desk with Loup O’Larry. Loup?”

“Thank you, Mathilda,” Loup O’Larry said with a nod, “today we’ve just had word that it seems you can take the Royal out of Capria but you can’t take the Royal out of a Royal.” “Interesting,” Mathilda broke in and the cameras swung over just in time to receive a thousand megawatt smile, “but please, go on.”

“Of course, Mathilda May,” Loup said with a frown that quickly disappeared in favor of his patented media smile, “Central Officials report that they have just captured the hitherto elusive Tyrant of Cold Space.”

“Good Lady of Beauty, O’Larry,” Mathilda May interrupted, throwing a horrified look at the camera, “the Tyrant of Cold Space?!”

“Yes, Mathilda,” O’Larry said his face tightening, “it seems that one of our very own, an unrepentant Royal by the name of Jason Vekna, seized control of one of our—rather, of Capria’s,” he flashed a smile at the his faux pas, “battleships. According to several completely independent reports, he declared himself the ruler of an sparsely inhabited world before initiating a spree of crime and terror not seen in these parts since the Bombardment!”

“Unbelievable, Loup,” Mathilda shuddered, recapturing the attention of the camera, “and simply awful. This just goes to illustrate that the dangers inherent in the repeal of the I229, the Mandatory Royal Psychological Counseling act. Sons and Daughters of Capria, we are reaping what we’ve sown,” she said grim-faced. Then, looking directly into the camera with a serious expression, asked, “How could this have happened?”

“Apparently he claims to be the last Confederate Authority in the Spine and…” Loup started to explain.

“Sorry, Loup,” Mathilda May cut in, “but that’s all the time we’ve got for a deep background look into the life of the Tyrant. For those of you interested, the straight download will be made available in the next half hour on the website. Now it’s time for some reaction from our panel.”

Two men appeared on the screen. One was dressed in the finery of a noble and the other was in the black robes of a parliamentary MP.

“Today we have Marquis de Farqua, representing the Palace, and our very own Member of Parliament, Namus Ponce, coming to us from an undisclosed location somewhere deep inside the Parliamentary Bunker,” Mathilda frowned at the Marquis but unleashed her glowing smile upon the MP.

“Thank you, Mathilda May. I’m pleased to see you’re just as unbiased as ever,” Namus Ponce said with an answering smile.

“Mathilda,” the Marquis nodded.

“Thank you, Namus,” she said with her thousand megawatt smile as she turned to the Lord of Farqua. “Marquis,” she said her smile dimming ever so slightly as she shifted her gaze to the other man’s image, “I think we’ll start with you instead, Namus,” she said as her smile regained its full wattage.

“Well, Mathilda May, as usual we once again have another deplorable act by the so called Royal House of Capria,” the Parliamentary Member said with a said shake of his head. “The shame of it all must be causing a great deal of heartburn over in the Palace right about now,” he said with a sarcastic smile, “I think you said it best, Mathilda: this is simply deplorable.”

The Reporter and the MP shared a long, knowing look before Mathilda May gave herself a visible shake and turned to Marquis. “Any reaction from the Palace, Lord Farqua?” she asked neutrally.

“Reaction,” the Marquis de Farqua exploded, “I have a reaction alright! This is nothing more than another hatchet job instigated by Parliament to blacken and besmirch the good name of both the Palace and the Royal House!”

Namus Ponce snorted loudly and rolled his eyes, causing Mathilda to hold up a hand slightly. “While I cannot and do not agree with our other panelist’s method of expressing his disbelief,” she said with a strict look at the MP, “I do have to second his expression. What in cold space are you talking about, Marquis?!”

“While this—of course unbiased—news network,” he said with heavy irony, “reported the Prince Cadet’s name as Jason Vekna. That is not only wrong; it is completely in error!”

“What?” Mathilda exclaimed angrily, her professional veneer shattered. “Do not try to change the subject Marquis or I’ll have your speaker cut!”

“The Palace cannot, and in fact, will not be held responsible for actions of a rogue Montagne,” the Lord of Farqua sneered, daring her to go through with the bluff.

“What!” Mathilda shrieked. “Be careful, Marquis, you are running perilously close to contempt for the Fourth Estate!”

“Outrageous! They are all Royals, Mathilda May,” cried Namus Ponce, “and must be lumped together both with the good and the terribly exceedingly, awfully, bad!”

“Worse,” the Marquis continued, shouting over the top of the other panelists, “this a Montagne that Parliament—not the Palace—placed in command and control of an old Royal battleship, most likely with the intent to blacken the good name of the Royal House when they knew he was intending to going rogue the entire time!”

“You go too far, My Lord,” Namus screamed, standing up and shaking his fist at the camera.

“If you want to make something of it then stop hiding inside that bunker like the coward you are and issue a formal challenge. Face me like a man, not the cowering church mouse you are, Member of Parliament, Namus Ponce,” the Lord of Farqua shouted, spittle flying from his mouth as he shouted back.

“And I’m afraid it’s time for a commercial break,” Mathilda May squeaked as the MP tore off his mike and threw it at the camera, “we’ll be back after these messages from our galactic sponsors.”

****************************************************

“And we’re back with our Panelists, the Esteemed Member of Parliament Namus Ponce, and his Lordship of Farqua,” she said with her once-again trademark Mathilda May smile, “both of whom have agreed to forgo the issuing of any formal challenges, agreeing that such practices are long outlawed.”

“Mathilda,” Namus said unhappily.

“Ms. May,” the Marquis grunted.

“Now, turning our attention from the Galactic News Desk, the Cosmic News Network, following our mandate to be as relevant as possible, is now switching over to our Domestic Front.” “Thank you, Mathilda,” Loup O’Larry said the screen splitting as he come on, “now, on the domestic front we have a rash of food poisoning affecting both royalist and parliamentarian members—”

“That’s alright, Loup,” Mathilda said with her best smile, “I’m already read in. I’ve got this.”

“Yes, but—” he started.

The reporter made a throat slashing gesture to someone off screen and Loup O’Larry’s screen disappeared while just a second later his mike went dead. Realizing the camera was still on her, Mathilda May made as if she had just been wiping away some bits of non-existent crumbs around her collar.

“What is the Bunker’s official position on this rash of food poisonings, MP Namus?” she asked seriously.

“Well, Mathilda May,” Namus Ponce said, drawing himself up and visibly swelling, “on an official note, the Bunker is completely and utterly dismayed at these clearly bilateral poisonings. However, on a personal note, I call upon my esteemed Colleague in the House of Lords to join me in decrying any extremist elements in either faction that might want to use this issue as a wedge to upset this delicate tete-a-tete we have so successfully going on right now. I also call for a formal investigation, headed by a joint taskforce, so that a stricter adherence to the health safety code can help us to avoid any further cases of tainted squid.”

“Join him, Ms. May?” the Marquis spluttered. “How outrageous to even suggest it, when the only people who have really been poisoned—and more importantly, the only people who have died—are members of the Lords!”

“Several Parliamentary Members fell suspiciously ill the same day, Lord de Farqua,” Mathilda May said grimly.

“No such poisonings were reported until a good half hour after the Noble Poisonings hit network news, and as I’ve said before: only Lords have died!”

“I see,” Mathilda May said with a serious nod, “as we can see, there are two sides to every story and while this side,” she nodded to the MP, “is calling for an investigation into the true cause of these unfortunate poisonings, the other is stonewalling.”

“Unbelievable,” the Marquis shouted with an exaggerated eye roll.

“Fair and balanced as ever, Ms. May,” the Parliamentary MP said smugly, “you are to be commended.”

“With these positions being the case,” Mathilda May continued, glaring at the Lord through slitted eyes, “why shouldn’t Jane Public and the Woman on the Street simply chalk all this up to the bilateral, internecine conflict which has rocked Capria for the past five and a half months, and say ‘a pox on both your Houses’?”

“I must officially resent the insinuation, Ms. May,” Namus Ponce said sternly. “It was not Parliament that seized the High Orbitals and caused the destruction of over half the Defense Fleet in its insane desire to regain power.”

“Half the Fleet was destroyed because of secret, Parliamentary, Anti-Mutiny Devices. We desired nothing but a peaceful, and long overdue, handover of power. Besides, it was Parliament who attempted to storm the Palace and held the Capital by force majeure—thanks to more than three quarters of the Caprian Marine Corps, a historically neutral party in such matters, siding almost exclusively with Parliament!”

The Member of Parliament snorted disdainfully and rolled his eyes. “There he goes, excusing Royal-induced murder yet again. Parliament, as always, is the much maligned and completely innocent victim of these unspeakable attacks.”

“Yes, but getting back on the subject at hand,” Mathilda May said turning to the Marquis sternly, “you still haven’t answered the question. In the matter of the mysterious food poisonings, why shouldn’t Jane Public say ‘a pox on both your Houses’?” “Very well, Mathilda,” the Lord de Farqua said flatly, “I’ll answer your question. Assuming I am right and these poisonings are deliberate, and that the MP is correct that, if deliberate, these actions must have been carried out by extremists, I would ask Jane Public to consider this,” he leaned forward and stared into the camera, “Lords are dead and not one single Member of Parliament suffered more than a case of extreme indigestion.”

“Is there a point in there somewhere?” Mathilda May sighed dramatically.

“Yes, Mathilda, there is,” the Marquis said direly, “assuming he’s right and both Royals and Parliamentarians attempted foul play, why then are these Parliamentary ‘extremists’ so much more skilled and better trained in the art of assassination than their obviously incompetent Royalist brethren?”

Mathilda jerked in her chair, but failed to riposte immediately as she was clearly at a momentary loss for words.

Namus Ponce to jab his finger toward his camera’s pickup, “I reject this entire line of reasoning outright!”

“That Parliament is obviously so much more skilled at assassinating the opposition should send chills up and down the spine of,” he smiled ironically, “the ‘Woman on the Street.’ That, Ms. May, is the real reason why Jane Public should view Parliament with alarm and resist the urge to cry a pox on both our houses.”

“This is insane,” shouted Namus Ponce, “and I demand my royal colleague be censured by the judiciary!”

Mathilda May opened and closed her mouth silently before grimly looking at the camera. “This is Mathilda May of the Cosmic News Network,” she said, struggling to put back on her winning smile, “and when we come back we will have a panel of experts to pick apart the Marquis’ wild assertions. We’ll see you back here at the bottom of the hour. Once again, this is Mathilda May of CNN, your very own Cosmic News Network. We are, as always, fair, balanced and unafraid.”

The screen went dark briefly before switching to a commercial break.

Chapter Thirty: Sundering the Connection

“The 2nd Corvette Squadron has taken the bait, Primarch,” Duba reported, the barest hint of disapproval in her voice. “We are seeing separation between the enemy corvette squadrons.”

Glue kept his face straight and his lips from pursing into a gratified smile. He knew the disapproval originated with her current position at Tactical, not with his current set of maneuvers. “Navigation,” he asked, thumping his chest with a rapid one-two-three rap for emphasis, “is there still time to turn and intercept the Caprian heavies before they reach their home world?”

Beside him, Duba’s breathing suddenly stopped.

The black-backed male with cybernetic implants at Navigation turned and looked at him, his wide eyes blinking rapidly. Then his lips pursed and the young male’s headgear started flashing. “Yes, Primarch,” the Male replied with an eager lip smack, “if we take a least time course and they maintain their current speeds we can achieve an intercept.”

“Primarch, it’s suicide to attack such large warships; are you seriously considering an attack?” Duba asked, her lips whitening.

“Sensor Grouping, any sign Caprians have pierced our decoy’s shroud?” Glue asked.

“No, Primarch. Nor do they seem to suspect that we have hard-docked our two corvettes together. They are still split with one squadron chasing the eight gunships and the decoy pretending to be one of our corvettes,” said another black-backed young male over at Sensors.

“Good,” Glue said with a satisfied grunt. “Communications, signal the gunboats and our 3rd Corvette under Ship-Father Scarface, Bluo; it’s time they came out to play.”

“I obey, Primarch,” said the Com-Sundered.

“Pilot, ready the turn. Time we foxed these base-stock,” Glue said baring his teeth.

A minute later, when the Pilot was ready, Glue gave the order, “Turn this ship and attack!”

Flipping the ship and decelerating as fast as possible, the Pilot sent them straight toward the four ship squadron which had been in pursuit.

“For the ship, for a Home, but always and ever: for the Clan and the Moral Code!” Glue roared, his hands slapping on the oversized arms of his command chair as he levered himself up.

“For the Clan! For the Code,” screamed the Bridge Grouping.

“Sundered: push!” Glue bellowed, as the distance between their ships and the still rapidly accelerating base-stock rapidly closed.

As the Sundered watched, it took the Caprian base stock precious seconds to realize that the prey had just become the predators, and even more time before they spotted Scar-Face’s Corvette accelerating rapidly down towards them on their three o’clock.

With their powerful engines and much smaller mass-to-size ratio, the gunboats with the decoys pulled away from their pursuers now that they no longer had to pretend to escort the illusory corvettes. The gunboats accompanying the real Sundered corvettes, on the other hand, rapidly came about.

The temporarily isolated Caprian Corvette Squadron wasn’t going to be out of mutual support with its other squadron for very long. With the rest of the Outer Defenses desperately charging back toward the home world to intercept and stop the stealthed invader that was Hold Mother’s warship, the only cavalry in the area was their sister corvette squadron, and she wasn’t going to be able to reach them in time…not for what Glue had planned for them.

“Weapons groups are to fully charge the laser banks but hold fire until ordered; Shields, double charge the forward generator,” Glue instructed.

“We can damage them, Primarch,” Duba protested. “Why are we not attacking?” she asked even as the long range fire from the enemy corvettes began hitting home and slowly drained their shields.

“Prepare to release anti-missile rockets strapped to the outside of the hull and then tell the gunboats to hide in our shadow,” Glue ordered and then turned to Duba. “Do not worry, Weapons Group Leader; I am a famous Primarch War-Leader. I have a plan.”

Scarfaced Duba stared at him and then, lowering her eyes, muttered something uncomplimentary about males who let power go to their heads but Glue ignored her words.

The Sundered Corvette took several hits from the enemy’s forward weaponry. “Shields down to 74%,” reported the piping voice of the female at shields.

Then, moving as one, the base stock corvettes turned to present their broadsides and all of them fired at Glue’s ship, causing the deck to rock as something exploded on the hull.

“Shields down to 24% and failing,” shrieked the Sundered femaling the shields. “Severe spotting—unable to compensate.”

“Hold strong, we are almost where we want them,” Glue bellowed over the rising cries of concern. This is a green group of warriors; my old Bridge Grouping would never have let such fear and worry show in their noises and body posture, he thought disapprovingly.

“We lost one of our three missile banks on the port side,” Duba cried.

Glue stared mono-focused on the enemy ships, knowing that for his plan to work, the timing must be perfect. Just before they were about to pass the enemy, he stood up.

“Comm. Grouping, new order: both ships and boats are to go between two enemy ships,” Glue snapped as the ship shook around them from the next enemy broadside. “Weapons, fire all counter-missile rockets and concentrate laser fire on their engines. Fire at will!”

Unleashing the full fury the Sundered corvettes pounded enemy squadron both with the expected attacks from their gunboats and corvettes but also from the mass over two hundred counter missiles launched from each corvette.

Bucking and writhing, the Corvette Squadron desperately tried to speed away from the attack even as the chief gunners on three of the Caprian warships, clearly acting on their own authority since there wasn’t time to ask for instructions from command, refocused every laser available to point defense.

On one of the three corvettes, and the single Caprian Corvette whose gunner sought command authority first, these actions proved both futile and far-far too late. Under the weight of the combined Sundered corvette, gunboat, and surprise anti-missile attack, shields were breached, hulls were pierced, and the damage was so severe that both suffered rapid, fatal core breaches which destroyed both ships before either could properly defend themselves.

The other two Caprian corvettes weathered the storm just in time to be on the receiving end of a pincer attack from the other half of the Sundered gunboats on one side, and Ship-Master Scar-Face’s now un-stealthed warship.

Although it took damage, the Caprian Corvette Captain facing the gunboats managed to guard his engines. This was despite his shields having been pummeled into near non-existence by the opening salvo by employing high-speed evasive maneuvers which only a Corvette—with the safety regulators taken off—could have managed.

Even more of an accomplishment, the corvette’s gun deck managed to knock out a pair of gunboats, despite the stomach and gravity defying hijinks ordered by its captain, through a trio of lucky shots.

The other Caprian Corvette was much less fortunate, and Ship-Master Scar-Face managed to bloody its nose before knocking out its engines.

When Scar-Face’s corvette came around for a second pass, Glue ran the numbers on the pursuit vector of the 2nd, still full strength, Corvette Squadron and his breath hissed out.

“Ordering Scar-Face to come about before he is captured,” Glue ordered the Comm. Group.

“The Ship-Master protests,” the Comm. Group Leader reported with a blat.

“He is coming about now or is having private conversation with the Waste Recycler when I send him on secret mission next time we make port!” Glue snarled. “Relay the orders,” he shouted when the Comm. Group Leader looked taken aback.

“Ship-Master will obey,” the Com-Group Leader reported, looking more than slightly relieved at receiving Scar-Face’s reply.

“Good,” Glue said, still glaring balefully at the icon representing the third Sundered corvette.

“You’re instructions, Glue?” Duba asked, breaking him out of his bad mood.

Glue gave his massive body a bone-rattling shake to clear his head and then nodded down at the ugly little scar-faced female.

“All corvettes are to report damage and immediately begin full drive burn toward System home world,” he instructed. “If these powerful warships are stupid enough to leave their engines pointed at Glue in their desire to reach the Hold Mother, Glue is ready to attack and destroy those engines—but we must be fast. All ships are to report any drive issues immediately; we will require speed for the next phase of this battle.”

“We obey,” replied the Comm. Group as he began relaying the message.

“The gunboats?” Duba asked, referring to the two destroyed gunboats. Because of their need to accompany the decoy force, they had been manned gunboats, not automated ones, “There could be survivors.”

Glue closed his eyes in silent reverence. “They gave their lives for the people,” he said evenly.

“If they are captured they will face dissection,” Duba protested, “it was your instruction that sent them. Look at me!” she demanded of his still closed eyes.

Glue opened his eyes to meet her gaze. “We have done all we can, and we will continue to pray for them,” Glue said heavily.

“Prayer!” Duba cried.

“We pray that they die before such a fate,” Glue explained in a hard tone, his features taking on a resolute cast.

“A cold comfort for their family and war-grouping,” Duba said coldly.

“If the humans are stupid enough to broadcast the dissection fate then we shall know…and we shall seek blood vengeance,” Glue said angrily. “But today we can hunt engines and slow the enemy by making them divert their attentions; we cannot fight an undamaged squadron. Today we must fight first for the Hold—the Home that is to be for all Sundered—not just two who would gladly give their life for this dream.”

“The Ship-Masters’ report!” exclaimed the Comm. Group Leader, and Glue had no more time for debate.

Chapter Thirty-One: The Dark of the Moon

“The medium cruisers are coming around the nape of Capria, Captain,” Sensors reported.

“Show me,” Akantha ordered.

“They’re only going to be visible for a short time, my lady,” the Petty Officer replied. “They’ve timed it so they can jump from behind the planet to the dark side of the moon with only minimal exposure.”

“The cowards run,” Isis spat angrily.

“But why do they run?” Akantha demanded.

“They must still be trying to get that second ship operational,” Gants said after a moment.

“But why go behind the moon? We can simply follow them there and avoid the Orbital Forts while doing so,” Akantha mused.

Gants hesitated, looking torn.

“What is it, Gants?” Akantha’s said, her eyes narrowed.

“There were rumors,” the First Officer said unhappily.

“Do not make me drag the words from you,” Akantha said, her tone promising she would do precisely that if needed. “What rumors?”

“It was said by the Royalists that Parliament had installed a planetary suppression system,” he said, still looking torn, “but surely that was just Royalist propaganda! The Palace and Parliament have been at odds ever since the reconstruction.”

“What is a ‘suppression system’?” she asked, clenching her jaw impatiently.

Gants looked surprised and his mouth made an ‘O’ of surprise. “It’s a bombardment system, with missiles ‘supposedly’ intended to strike down any civilian or military targets on planet, up to and including cities and entire armored brigades…” he explained, looking thoroughly sick before hastily adding, “But again, that’s only rumors.”

Akantha’s gaze shot over to lock fully onto his. “How easily could such a base on the moon be turned against us?” she said harshly. “And why was this not listed on our threat assessment?”

“Why would it be?!” Gants said defensively, looking truly horrified. “Parliament’s elected by the people, and besides, it’s just a rumor; they would never kill cities full of people! I mean who would vote for them in the next election cycle if they did something like that? It can’t possibly be true…”

“After everything they have done, how can you possibly say that?” Akantha glared at him like he was an offensive insect. The Starborn were simply indecipherable to her at times; in many respects they were similar to her own people, but in others they were utterly foreign to her. “If you really believe them incapable of such atrocities, why are you here?”

Gants looked offended. “It’s King James that attacked us, not Parliament, and he’s got to be punished for it,” the young man she had made her First Officer said stridently. “It might have been easier for me personally to let the courts, or Parliament, or whoever else deal with him…but I didn’t join up with the SDF because I wanted to take the easy way out. Besides,” he demanded, “how can you even ask me why I’m here? He colluded with that pirate to kill my crewmates; that blighter’s got it coming!”

“So what would you say about the way your Parliament has treated your Admiral?” Akantha asked in a deceptively smooth voice.

“They were wrong to do that,” Gants said stoutly, “just ‘cause you’re a Royalist doesn’t mean you can’t be trusted, and being a Royal doesn’t make you one of Murphy’s Demon Imps—I’d tell that to anyone who’ll listen if I ever get the chance.”

Akantha scowled at him before turning back to address the bridge. “Helm, keep our distance but bring us around the moon. Sensors,” she said, turning to the Petty Officer, “I want to know if there is a secret missile base on that moon.”

“Yes, Lady,” Sensors replied.

“Hold Mistress,” the Helmsman acknowledged.

“After those cruisers!” Akantha ordered with relish.

“You realized we won’t be able to keep up the attacks on the orbital forts,” Isis inquired respectfully.

“If we finish these cruisers quickly, there will be no more mobile forces in the area for hours,” Akantha said. “After that we can lay proper siege to their stationary fortifications without worrying if the enemy is maneuvering for advantage behind us.”

“As you command, my lady,” Isis nodded.

“Either way, I intend to land at the Palace as soon as possible, Isis. Hecate,” she said, turning to the woman at communications. “Prepare the shuttles and tell the Sundered on the Phoenix that they are now called to serve.”

Hecate signaled her acknowledgment and set about her assigned task.

Swinging around the moon, the modified Imperial Strike Cruiser, Furious Phoenix, rapidly overtook the other cruisers.

“Prepare to fire,” Akantha commanded when they were in range.

“Comm. signal,” Hecate reported.

“Sensor reading!” exclaimed the Petty Officer at Sensors. “The enemy cruisers are stationed over some kind of base…and now I’m reading targeting lasers!”

“Evasive maneuvers?” the Helmsman asked, and not waiting for his answer the war slave immediately started jerking the ship around with the maneuvering thrusters.

“Yes,” Akantha belatedly told the Helm before turning to Hecate. “What are they saying?”

“Putting them on the long-talkers,” Hecate said and the screen activated, showing a man in a Caprian uniform with a significant amount of gold braid on his shoulders and forearms.

For a pair of seconds both sides just stared at their screens before the pompous-looking Caprian spoke, “Pirate vessel, this is Commodore Godefroi Troi of the Citizen Defender. We have you under our targeting sensors; heave-to, step strike your fusion generators, and prepare to boarded,” he ordered.

Akantha drew herself up and half drew Bandersnatch theatrically.

“This is Adonia Akantha Zosime, Hold Mistress of Messene, Land-Bride of Argos, and I am no pirate. I am here because during an anti-piracy mission with Confederation Fleet forces, we were attacked and betrayed by Parliamentary Marines sent to us under the Seal of King James,” Akantha said with icy precision.

“Stand down,” Commodore Troi said with deliberate emphasis on each word, “and prepare for boarding or you. Will. Be. Destroyed.”

“Marines who then joined the pirate Blood King, Jean Luc Montagne, and fled the System with their ill-gotten gains,” Akantha shouted over the top of him.

“I will not say this again,” the Commodore said with eyes as hard as his voice.

“The Hold Mistress is the Hold; an attack upon one is an attack upon the other,” Akantha seethed as molten fury washed through her core. “So either send this ‘Vekna King’ of yours to explain himself, or this attack upon my sovereign person can only be interpreted as an act of war,” Akantha’s glacier-blue eyes bore into the Commodore’s.

“They just severed the connection, Mistress,” Hecate reported as the screen went blank.

“Both medium cruisers are coming about; the second one is only reading at half power,” the Petty Officer at Sensors reported.

“They just painted us with targeting sensors,” Isis reported.

“Have at them,” Akantha commanded, her entire body quivering with silent fury.

“Attacking now,” Isis said with satisfaction.

“Shields taking damage, attempting to compensate,” reported the Shields operator.

“We need numbers, Shields,” Gants said.

“Sorry, Sir,” the Shields operator replied, and from where she sat, Akantha saw the back of the man’s neck turn red. “Shields down to 82% of maximum,” replied the operator more professionally.

“We cannot strike them with our full strength unless we turn the ship, Hold Mistress,” Isis said.

“Then do so!” Akantha snapped.

“Turning to present broadside now,” the war slave at the Helm said quickly.

As Akantha watched, their strike cruiser turned to present its full broadside to the oncoming Caprian Cruisers and the Phoenix’s weapons slashed out with punishing force.

On the main screen, the Caprian Cruisers also began to turn. Then, below and behind the Caprian warships, the moon-base mushroomed with multiple threat tracks.

“What the blazes is that?” Gants cried.

“Sensors are reading multiple missile launches from the moon’s surface,” the Petty Officer shouted before her voice rose in surprise. “Those aren’t ship missiles, my lady; those are planetary bombs they’re firing at us!”

“Motherless Daughters,” Akantha cursed. “The Gunnery Chief is recommending we roll the ship!” Isis cried.

“Increasing engine power from 25% to 45% and changing course to loop around the cruisers; those bombs aren’t designed to track moving targets,” the war slave yelled.

“By all means, roll it,” Akantha had to raise her voice to be heard over the cacophony overtaking the bridge.

“Shield power down to 62% and falling,” declared Shields.

“I’m reading over forty planetary bombs in the first wave with another thirty seven in the second but I can confirm that they are in fact bombs, Captain,” the Petty Officer reported, her voice pitched to cut through the confusion. “Most of their forward motion is from the launch sites; I’m only reading about five percent of the self-guiding speed of a ship-to-ship missile.”

“At these ranges, five percent is too much,” Gants said.

“So,” Akantha rounded on her First Officer, “your wonderful Parliament of the people could not possibly have been involved in the attack upon us, just like they never had a planetary suppression system to keep the people in line?!” she shouted.

Gants stared at her helplessly. “I didn’t know,” he mumbled as the color drained from his face. “After everything they have done, you should have!” she raged, and Gants bowed his head.

“World of Men,” she swore, turning back to the main-screen, “tell Gunnery we hold nothing back; we leave it all on the field. This is the battle which makes or breaks us. It is do, or die!”

Chapter Thirty-Two: Lancers Forward

“Lancers forward,” Darius yelled, driving forward at a dangerous pace.

In front of him, enemy warriors in the same battle-suits as the Royal Marines they had left behind to guard the Omicron, disappeared behind the next corner and fresh, undamaged men in power-armor popped out to take their place. Using this corner for cover, these fresh enemy units were far too effective with their counter-fire for the Lancer Captain’s comfort.

Crouching down to take advantage of what little cover was to be had, Darius exchanged a trio of shots with the foe.

“Give it up, pirate,” an enemy warrior yelled from his position behind the corner, “your advance has stalled out and we’ve got you pinned down here. Take to your heels while you still can because by the time you break through, the Marines will be here and you don’t want to mess with those scary blighters. Clean your clocks, they will!”

Motioning to two of the forward squad, Darius tapped the duralloy wall beside him with a quick, triple tap, the signal the Lancers had adopted on the Omicron when they needed to silently indicate a wall needed opening.

The Lancers behind him grinned and stealthily started creeping into position.

Seeing his men taking fire, Darius knew he needed to do something to distract the enemy until his warriors were in position to attack the wall.

“Marines?” Darius snorted. “I have fought alongside a few of those.”

There was a shocked silence from the other end of the hall. “You may have fought beside a few sailors that called themselves Marines, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about Caprian Marines, pirate,” the enemy said with condescension dripping from his voice.

“I’ve fought alongside those, too,” Darius stated, “missed out on fighting the Imperial Marines, though. Maybe next time.”

“Get out of here, you lying merc,” the other man called out angrily.

“Of course, you know the problem with the Caprian style of Marine, don’t you?” Darius asked.

“Go stuff yourself,” the enemy growled.

Darius silently signaled with two fingers for his men to ready themselves as he saw they had moved into proper position.

“They’re too blasted slow!” Darius shouted, clenching his fist and causing his Lancers to jump up and attack the duralloy wall with their vibro-swords.

“What the blazes are they doing, Master Chief?” one of the enemy warriors cried.

“Off the blasted speaker channel, you moron,” the Warriors Darius had been chatting with cursed as he opened up with his blaster rifle.

Pulling the trigger as fast as he could pump out aimed shots, Darius lay down suppressing fire with his plasma rifle.

When one of his warriors fell from a lucky—or, potentially well-aimed—pair of rifle bolts to the face place, he tossed aside the plasma rifle and grabbed the hilt of the fallen man’s vibro-weapon.

Taking the fallen warrior’s place, he hunched his shoulders and set to finish cutting through the wall. Several bolts struck his shoulder, and his armor’s upper arm section heated until the flesh beneath flared with pain while the actuators began to fail. Darius knew the shots were too precise for luck. It seemed someone over there was a blasted good shot! No sooner had he thought this than he took a bolt that starred up his visor, damaging the heads-up display, or HUD.

With a shriek of metal and a triumphant roar, Darius kicked and shoved his way the rest of the way through what remained of the wall; he was not staying in that corridor even one moment longer.

“Lancers, forward at the charge; the new door is open,” he howled triumphantly over the company com-channel.

Not waiting for his men, Darius went howling down the corridor, vibro-sword in hand. Cutting left at the first cross-connecting hall junction, Darius arrived just in time to catch a pair of warriors setting up a crew-served ion cannon.

“A-Lyconese, for Mistress Messene!” he screamed, barreling into the first warrior and knocking him against the wall as he planted his vibro-sword in the shoulder of the other.

Kicking and slashing for all he was worth, Darius cut down the man he had stabbed. The warrior managed to grapple with him before he could seal the deal and the other man’s newer, undamaged armor proved telling in a contest of power-assisted strength-on-strength.

Hooking the other warrior’s heel, he sent them both to the ground. Then, lowering his head, he started pounding the other man’s visor. Head butt after head butt smashed into the other man’s visor—with Darius always careful to use the armored top of his helmet, the part right above his own delicate visor.

But even doing his best to avoid such, Darius’ own crystalline visor shattered, destroying the last of his HUD and killing his com-system. While unexpected, the setback did not deter Darius from his onslaught, and eventually the other man’s visor also shattered. The man screamed defiantly, but one more strike put an end to all but his silent death throes. Darius shoved himself back up to his feet and unleashed a primal roar; this was how battle was meant to be!

“Son of an Uplift,” that same voice he had conversed with earlier shouted to his right, and blaster bolts exploded all around the Lancer Captain.

Throwing himself to the ground, Darius snagged up the crew served cannon and while still taking fire, continued forward into a roll back around the corner he had just come from.

Grabbing the trigger grip with one hand and the cannon’s barrel with the other, he surged back to his knees just in time to point the cannon at a screaming enemy warrior. Pulling the trigger of the mighty weapon knocked the unbraced Lancer Captain backward, teakettle over spout.

The thump now behind, loud as it was, was nothing next to the thunder of duralloy boots on duralloy decking as his Lancer squads finally caught up with him.

“About time you showed up,” he said hoarsely, “they are just around the corner!”

“We’ve got ’em on the run!” screamed the Squad Sergeant, rushing past him.

Chapter Thirty-Three: Lights, Camera, Reaction! The Power is Live.

The deck of Main Engineering seemed to vibrate slightly, and then without so much as a whoosh, the final fusion generator ignited before settling down into a nice, even hum.

“And they said it couldn’t be done, Sir,” Penelope grinned at him.

“There should have at least been a ‘whoosh,’ or something,” Tiberius frowned at Fusion 5.

“Don’t you get it; we did it, Sir!” the young Power Room Tech declared triumphantly, hopping out of her chair and dancing a jig.

“You’re right, Pen, we did,” the Lieutenant said with a wry shake of his head.

“Even after they took away half the crew,” she said, doing a pirouette that broke the young Engineer out of his funk.

“Knock it off,” he said with a laugh, “and somebody get on the horn to tell the Bridge they’ve got power. It’s time to get off their keesters and actually do some work for a change.”

Someone ran over to a comm. station and began reporting to the bridge as he had suggested.

“Sir,” the young Tech at the comm. station began with a victorious smile, “they’re asking how soon they can get us out of the Shipyard; they want to take the ship to 10% on the secondaries as soon as possible.”

The Lieutenant shook his head in bewilderment. Who did they think he was, anyway, he wondered with a silent roll of the eyes. “Tell the bridge the time is now, Engineer. We don’t have any time to waste and the port secondary is ready and rearing to run at up to 80% even as we speak.”

“On it, Sir!” the Tech said, turning back to the console.

“A job well done, everyone,” Tiberius said, turning to the rest of the Engineering crew. Now, the other secondary’s still in pieces spread out from here to the yard, so let’s get that primary engine up, shall we?”

Tiberius firmly believed the cheer he received in response would have shook the deck itself if they’d had anything close to a full crew on deck.

He was leaned over a tech at a service console, directing the initialization of the primary cold space engine when there was a commotion at the primary entrance to Main Engineering.

“Spalding. Take me to Lieutenant Spalding,” demanded a battle-suited figure bursting into Engineering using the voice of Master Chief Aubertine.

Tiberius gritted his teeth but let the use of his last name, after he’d specifically requested otherwise, pass.

“What’s wrong, Master Chief?” he asked, stopping his current work and striding across the deck abruptly.

“They got around behind our line of retreat and cut us to ribbons,” Aubertine said, taking deep breaths as several more battle-suited men came staggering into Engineering.

“Where are my men, Shore Patrol?” the Engineering Lieutenant demanded in a low voice.

The Master Chief lifted his visor and stared down at the young engineer bleakly. “Dead,” he said in a flat voice.

“Blast you, Aubertine,” Tiberius said coldly, clenching his fists so tightly his fingers dug into his palms.

The Master Chief shook his head. “These blighters aren’t just any pirates; they’re good,” Aubertine said grimly. “We could have held them at the choke points; we had position and the numbers, even if not the training I would have wanted for the job. But they cut through the blasted walls and got around us before we could regroup.”

Terrance Tiberius spat on the deck in disgust. “I trusted you with those men,” he snapped.

“And I’m going to need the rest of them, too, if we’re going to hold these blighters from controlling the ship,” Aubertine said sharply, and in the face of Tiberius’s withering disapproval he became visibly angry. “Grow up, Lieutenant! This is combat; men die in combat. Wrap your head around that concept and get back in the game. These rogues need to be stopped or we’re all in for a very cold walk, if you take my meaning. Pirates aren’t exactly known for taking prisoners.”

“My head is fully ‘in the game,’ as you call it,” the Lieutenant grated, “the Shore Patrol had its chance and it led my men to the slaughter! As the Demon Murphy is my witness, I’ll be good and blasted before I put another man in your hands, Master Chief!”

Master Chief sniffed, loudly dragging air in through his right nostril. “There’s an easy way and a hard way to do this, Lieutenant, and I don’t have time for easy,” Aubertine said calmly.

“Step off, Chief,” Tiberius said flatly, “you had your chance to stop these blasted pirates. Now it’s our turn and while you’ve been running around in the halls, we haven’t exactly just been sitting at our consoles, stroking our engines for a power reaction,” he continued with an angry smile.

“You have some kind of plan then?” the Master Chief asked, his head cocked at a strange angle.

“Much like the Romans of Ancient Earth, I’ve always found that the proper use of a few sound engineering principles can make all the difference, Chief Aubertine,” Tiberius said with a grim smile.

Master Chief Aubertine took a long look around the sparely occupied Engineering space and then back at his greatly depleted forces. He nodded reluctantly. “Alright then, Sir,” he said evenly, “what’s the plan?”

Lieutenant Terrance Tiberius Spalding motioned over to the console he had just vacated. “Step into my parlor, said the Spider to the Fly,” he grunted.

“Lieutenant,” Aubertine said warningly and Tiberius looked over at him. “We don’t have time for games, Sir,” the Master Chief continued more respectfully, “those pirate bully boys will be here any minute.”

“You ever heard the saying, ‘when climbing a ladder, keep one hand for yourself?” the Lieutenant said fingers flying over his console.

“Of course,” said Aubertine. The Master Chief then surreptitiously reached a hand over to the safety rail and his eyes narrowed, “What’s your plan?”

“Just make sure to keep both hands on the safety rail and hold on tight,” Tiberius chuckled, imagining the pirate reaction to his little surprise as he pulled out the old manual seat restraints built into all the antique engineering chairs and started strapping himself in.

Looking at the younger man with newfound concern, the aged Master Chief activated his helmet’s com-link and spoke urgently to the rest of his team.

Chapter Thirty-Four: In the Thick of It

“Fire, you useless, lazy dogs or I’ll find a grease monkey who will!” Lesner screamed into the ear of one of his Gunners manning a medium laser, “He couldn’t do a worse job.”

“Chief!” protested the assistant gunner. The gunner himself was quite rightly more focused on his next shot than in trying to appease the irate Chief Gunner screaming in his ear.

“You think they care that they’re firing on their former countrymen? That their trigger fingers twitch on the button? Not just no, but Hades no!” Lesner raged, stomping down his gun deck. “Sweet, crying Murphy but they didn’t care when they were stabbing us—their spacer brothers—in the back over at the Omicron and these slobs you’re aiming at are the vicious, stay-at-home sisters of those blackguards that corn-cobbed us good while we were busy putting paid to the pirates, and now think they can waltz right over and finish the job? To the Demon with them,” he threw his hands in the air and then reached down to tear at his own hair.

The gun crews within earshot of him gave a growl and the Chief Gunner allowed himself a small, quiet smile, which quickly hidden. He didn’t really think any of his gunners were hesitating over their targeting sensors but it was the principle of the thing: the Chief Gunner’s duty was to inspire, just like the old Chief, Bogart, had shown time and again.

Satisfied, he turned to start back up the deck, repeating the same message when there was a near blinding flash and a molten hot spray of hydraulic fluid splashed a line across his chest from one side to the other.

“Lady of mercy,” he squealed, going over backwards. He had just enough presence of mind to roll to the side as the emergency turret blast doors came down where his foot would have been.

“Are you okay, Chief?!” asked a stretcher team running over to his position.

“Get it off, get it off!” he screamed, batting at the fluid still burning a line of fire across his chest.

The volunteer orderly from Medical started spraying anti-burn foam across the line of fire and, realizing what was happening, the Chief Gunner batted him away.

“Get off me,” he cried, shoving the orderly away.

“Sir, you’re hurt,” disagreed the orderly, shoving on his shoulder and trying to finish applying the foam. “Can someone get me the scissors; the work suit is going to have to come off, or at least the part around the section that’s burned into his skin.”

“There’s lads hurt worse than me,” Lesner tried to growl but the fire that shot across his chest at the attempt turned his words into half choke. “See to them and let me back to the business of running this deck!”

The orderly made as if to protest, but a Chief Gunner had no business sitting out any part of his first combat engagement as the Chief unless he was dead or crippled so badly he couldn’t stand—and maybe not even then! Ignoring the nauseating smell of fresh barbeque on the grill that was wafting up from his chest, he pushed himself up.

Shoving the medical team away, he staggered to his feet and clutching at his chest limped away at top speed

“Come on you namby-pamby blaggarts, cut loose! Cut loose and give it to them with both barrels!” he hollered, but even the resulting cheer from the deck wasn’t enough to fully penetrate the pain haze. Upon reaching the end of the deck—a place where no one could easily see him—he leaned against a structural beam for support.

The hiss of another hydraulic line breaking loose and screams of his men broke him out of his haze with a snap. Everything still felt a little distant, as if he was looking through a tunnel, but he had a job to do: he had to get to that gun mount.

Other men were busy shutting off the hydraulic spray when he got there, but the blast doors hadn’t yet fallen. He could see the yellow lights flashing all over the gunner’s screen while the gunner himself was writhing on the deck.

Not knowing how much longer he could walk the deck in his current condition, he made a snap decision and levered himself up into the gunners chair.

“Alright, you,” he said maneuvering the damaged and somewhat sluggish but still mostly functional heavy laser around until it pointed at an opposing turbo-laser. He took in a deep, painful breath and screamed, “Gun deck Triumphant!”

If anyone tugged on his arm and attempted to get him away from the damaged laser mount before it was destroyed or the blast doors came down, he wasn’t aware of it. All he could see were a series of targets which he set about engaging one at a time.

He sent shot after shot out at the enemy and felt a renewed sense of purpose as he knew that he was where any good gunner belonged: behind the targeting sights of a weapon.

Chapter Thirty-Five: A Vicious Pounding

“Shields down to 18% and falling, Captain,” cried the Shields operator.

“My lady, we must withdraw,” Gants urged.

“No.” Akantha said flatly.

“We can break off and circle back around the moon, taking them in the rear after our shields have regenerated,” he pleaded.

“Helm, take us forward—right into their teeth,” Akantha instructed coldly.

“Lady Akantha,” Gants protested, “they’re taking damage and our hull is barely scratched. One orbit and we’ll be able to break them and avoid the missile base barrage.”

“We do not have time to circle around the moon and then deal with the Fortresses; this ends here!” Akantha snapped.

“Yes, lady,” he said, backing down and sitting stiffly in his chair.

Lifting her chin resolutely, Akantha ignored him, remaining focused on the main-screen.

“Shield collapse imminent,” the Shields operator reported in a tension-filled voice.

“Gun deck is reporting overheating on the starboard side,” Isis growled.

“We’re going in,” exclaimed the Helmsman, leaning forward and pushing the throttle up. “Communications, inform them we will accept their surrender at any time,” Akantha said imperiously.

“I don’t think they’re going to surrender,” Gants said faintly. She watched as their port guns lanced out at the Caprian cruiser to their left, and the enemy ship rocked as its shields were pierced. Not long after their shields collapsed, the ship began spewing air into space.

There was a clang as an enemy barrage struck, and lights flashed red on the bridge as the computer announced in a dry, synthetic voice that the shield generators had been taken off-line to prevent a power surge from destroying the generators.

Akantha bared her teeth.

“A hit!” Isis shouted triumphantly as the medium cruiser on the starboard side ejected a fusion core and began listing.

The ejected core exploded, rocking the icon of the Caprian Cruiser on the screen but otherwise doing no apparent damage.

A Tactical operator leaned over to Isis to speak with obvious urgency, and Akantha’s eyes swiveled to track the subdued exchanged.

Her Life Guard turned to the Hold Mistress with burning eyes. “Recommend we adjust course to place the still functional cruiser between us and the damaged cruiser, as well as roll the ship to keep the port side on target, Hold Mistress,” the Tracto-an woman said, clenching her fist.

“Explain,” Akantha said sharply.

“The damaged cruiser has lost engine control,” Isis said with a savage smile, “she is falling into the moon! That was the ship that never got all her fusion generators back online, Mistress!”

“Helmsman, proceed as recommended by Tactical,” Akantha said eagerly, “we must crush that warship!”

“The Missile Base is firing another bombardment salvo!” the Petty Officer at Sensors exclaimed, her alto voice cutting through the Hold Mistress’s growing triumph.

“Stay on target!” Akantha growled.

Grimly, the bridge crew stuck to their tasks and the ship inched closer to the fully functional cruiser, placing it between themselves and the crippled medium cruiser that never had managed to get up to full power.

Things had just settled down, with point defense easily wiping large parts of this latest bombardment salvo out of cold space, when the Petty Officer shot bolt upright out of her chair.

“The Parliamentary Power, Ma’am!” the Petty Officer said in shock.

“What is it?” Akantha demanded.

“She’s pulling out of the Shipyard, and Mistress,” the Petty Officer continued, turning around with wide eyes, “she just painted us with her targeting sensors!”

Akantha’s face tightened.

“There’s no way she could get her fusion generators up to regulation,” Gants advised her, “it’s probably an empty threat to try and sucker us away from the wounded cruisers.”

The Hold Mistress looked at him, cocked her head after a moment’s thought and nodded.

The Petty Officer overhearing the exchange shook her head. “I’m sorry, First Officer, but Sensors are reading an70% power profile on the PP; that battleship is live, Sir!”

“Impossible,” Gants said, sounding anything but disbelieving, “unless her fusion generators were functioning at a very low step down…she must have one heck of an engineering crew on her, my lady.”

“Do you want to change course?” the war slave at the Helm asked, sounding dismayed.

“No,” Akantha said after taking a moment to digest the new situation, “we stay the course. Tactical, destroy for me that cruiser!”

“As you command, Hold Mistress,” Isis growled. “If the Power clears the yard and swings around the moon just a little bit, she’ll be in a perfect position to put a shot up our skirts with those turbo-lasers of hers,” Gants said in a low voice.

“Yes,” Akantha said evenly, having already deduced as much from the tactical readouts.

“If we lose our legs, we’re finished. We’ll never make it out of the system…you do know that, right?” Gants pressed urgently. “If we’re going to break off and swing around the moon, now’s the time.”

Akantha took a deep breath and let it out explosively.

“Darius is steady,” Akantha said slowly, “he can get the job done.”

“I understand that, Lady Akantha,” Gants agreed, “but he’s only one man—one man with half a company of Lancers and a gaggle of former pirates against who knows what kind of resistance.”

“If we turn away now, then everything we have sacrificed to get in this system is for naught,” the Hold Mistress of Messene took a deep breath. “As I will not turn away, it seems that as of this moment our fate rests fully in the hands of the Lyconese.”

The Tracto-an members of the bridge crew looked at her sharply and Hecate muttered, “Men save us all.”

“Enough of that, Comm.,” Akantha snapped, and then rounded on the Tracto-an Comm. Officer, “and inform the Lancer Captain that time is of the essence. I need that ship neutralized and I need it done now.”

Chapter Thirty-Six: Parliamentary Power

Faint squeals and bangs could be heard through the main blast doors leading into the Command Bridge.

“They’re really trying to break in here,” Petty Officer Gormst said to the acting Captain.

“There’s no way they can get inside,” Lieutenant Commander Malbet, an officer normally in charge of Yard Salvage operations, said referring to the Command Bridge. “Or at least not before this battle is decided, one way or the other.”

Gormst shook his head as he watched the battle-suited pirates place a breaching charge that did little more than scar the surface—and potentially warp the blast doors a few microns.

“Helm, take us up to the maximum of whatever Engineering thinks they can give us and tell those gunners we’re giving them a series of priority targets. They are to engage as soon as possible.”

“What about Engineering, Sir?” Gormst asked, allowing some of the very real concern he was feeling to show on his face.

Acting Captain Malbet looked around at a bridge with less than half the critical stations manned by someone who knew what they were doing, and then turned back to meet the Petty Officer’s eyes. “Four companies of Marines are on the way up from the surface, Gormst. If we can just keep that raider on the other side of the moon for another fifteen minutes, they’ll be docking with the Power. The shuttles are on the way, Gormst, and another half hour after that we’ll have a full two battalions onboard. We just have to hold on—and we have to keep that raider and her infernal point defense occupied. Even with most of the fleet pulled off to the outer system, we have a weight of depth that no raider, no matter how powerful, can hope to match. We simply have to get it into play.”

“From your mouth to Saint Murphy’s ears,” Gormst said seriously, “because we’re getting rolled out there in the rest of the ship.”

“We’re Caprians and those aren’t Imperials; there isn’t a pirate alive who can match us. Not in space and certainly not within our own home system!” the Acting Captain said furiously. “I don’t care what internecine troubles the Bunker and the Palace are involved with, a planet’s a powerful thing and nothing unifies like an outside threat. We’ve been saying we needed more hulls ever since losing most of our battleships to Admiral Janeski, and our smaller units to the infighting between Parliament and our new King. I expect that they’ll finally start to listen. No matter how this battle turns out, I think the SDF will start to see increased funding.”

The Petty Officer looked at the Captain strangely. “Right now future funding levels are about the farthest thing from my mind, Sir,” he said professionally. “I’m more worried about the boarders and the fact that we’ve barely got enough gunners to man just the turbo-lasers on one side of the ship!”

“It’s ‘grow or die,’ Gormst,” said the Acting Captain, “this attack is just a symptom of our weakness. They never would have tried it if we’d had a full squadron of worked up battleships in orbit. We’ve got to lay down more hulls!”

Chapter Thirty-Seven: All Miracles Come in Threes

“One last push and Main Engineering will be ours; the fools still haven’t thought to close the blast doors. If we do this, the ship is ours,” Darius said over the com-link. He chopped his hand down in the direction of their quarry, “Lancers, forward!”

In response to his command, the two mixed squads of Lancers around him gave a guttural roar and charged into Engineering. Leveling his plasma rifle, the Lancer Captain followed them in.

Being one of the last Lancers through the blast doors, the Lancer Captain was the first to notice those blast doors rumbling closed behind them.

Looking up to clear the vertical angles of the catwalks overhead, Darius just had time to level his plasma rifle at an officer in an Engineering work suit shouted something and gave him a jaunty, two finger salute before the world turned upside down.

****************************************************

The Engineering Lieutenant hunched over his console to present the smallest profile possible until the last of the power-armored pirate scum had entered into Main Engineering.

“I hope your plan isn’t to let them have the run of the place,” Master Chief Aubertine said with a glare and a growl from his position crouched behind a console—with two hands firmly holding onto the safety rail nearby.

Ignoring the surly Master Chief, the young Lieutenant watched the video feed on his console and as soon as the last pirate ran through the doorway, he straightened up.

“Get ready for a surprise!” Tiberius called out, bringing down the fingers of his other hand to stab the preset hot key.

There was a split second pause.

“Well, that was anti-climactic,” Aubertine growled, right before the world turned upside down. “Oh, Murphy!” he called out, after the gravity suddenly reversed him with down now taking over for up, and the ceiling taking over for the floor.

Unlike the pirate invaders, who fell to the ceiling that was the new floor with a series of clangs, the worst thing Aubertine and his scratch Shore Patrol had to contend with was holding onto the duralloy rails and hold their gorge as their inner ears rebelled.

The Engineering Lieutenant smiled tightly as his safety straps started to dig into his torso. Despite hanging in what was now an upside down position, blood rushing to his head, he couldn’t resists another quip.

“Hold onto your butts,” he said gleefully, waiting only long enough for the majority of pirate clangs to subside and the half minute gravity change to take place, before stabbing the button to reverse gravity for a second time. Even with the safety lockouts removed, the grav-plates could only be re-initialized so fast.

A random plasma bolt flew over their heads causing Tiberius to instinctively duck his head. Instead of waiting for his stomach to stop flopping and the last pirate to clang into place, he stabbed the button to reverse gravity yet again.

Up and down he sent everyone, and everything, that wasn’t strapped, locked, or held into place with power armored grips. He cycled the grav-plates until no more blaster or plasma bolts flew through Main Engineering—and then he did it twice more for good measure.

A warning light started flashing on the workstation console he was seated at. The rapid gravity polarization and reversals were starting to take its toll, meaning at least the grav-plates—and probably the entire gravity system in Main Engineering—were going to need a complete overhaul when this was over and done with. In any case, the warning said it was time to stop abusing the system or something was liable to explode.

“That should do it,” Tiberius said with a hard smile.

“Nothing human could survive being thrown around like that,” Master Chief Aubertine said with grim satisfaction as he stared down at something on the floor.

The Engineering Lieutenant looked down at a pair of battle-suited figures with clearly broken necks as their helmets were cocked at impossible angles. “A design flaw of the old suits,” the Master Chief said, following the Lieutenant’s gaze.

Tiberius just shook his head as something down below groaned and one of the figures on the floor stirred. Armor rasping as servos whined and squealed, one of the pirates actually sat up.

“Unbelievable,” Tiberius snapped, eyes snapping back to the still dangerously flashing gravity system readouts.

“Maybe give them another ride on the fun carousel,” Aubertine advised.

The Engineering looked at him flatly. “If I push it any further the grav-plates could explode. Or worse…” he finished grimly.

“What could be worse?” the Master Chief said unslinging the blaster rifle from his shoulder and raising it before firing off a pair of aimed shots.

“For instance,” Tiberius yelped ducking under a barrage of return fire, “what if it fails us when we try to use the engines, or it turns to maximum and crushes us?”

“I guess that in their condition these engines won’t run themselves,” Aubertine allowed, scrambling to the side and diving for new cover.

Tiberius slapped the release button on his chest and started throwing off his safety straps. “If this keeps up maybe I should risk it anyway—” he said, ducking to the side and out of his chair right before the console took a plasma bolt and went dead, smoke rising from its ruptured innards, “or not.”

“Blast, did you see that guy move?!” Aubertine snarled, falling over backwards with a smoking black hole in the shoulder of his battle-suit. It didn’t look like it had penetrated the duralloy down to the skin, but the shoulder servo looked to have been compromised. “These blighters are inhuman! No one keeps moving after damage like that. After what those blokes’ve been through he should be lying on the floor with every, single, long bone snapped!”

Seeing there was nothing he could do for the still battle-worthy Master Chief, the Engineering Lieutenant reached down and unclipped the holster of his sidearm.

Popping up, he fired a shot at the pirate and then rolled away a split second before the return fire rocketed his location.

“I think he disagrees with you,” Tiberius laughed, popping back up to fire another shot, only to fall over backwards as a second enemy gunner blasted a divot in the console right next to his head. “There’s more than one of them!” he cried in disbelief.

“This is going to come down to blood and guts,” Aubertine said grimly, “it’s a good thing you sent the rest of your team without armor out of the way. They’d be nothing but cannon fodder right now.”

“Hey,” Tiberius protested. He, himself, was without power-armor, instead wearing a basic Engineering work-suit, “I resemble that comment!”

“Less talk,” Aubertine grunted, signaling the rest of his men to get in on the action over the com—which Tiberius had been tuned into so he could monitor the Chief’s channel—and then the blaster and plasma bolts were coming too fast and furious for more talk.

It was kill or be killed.

****************************************************

Darius groaned, hauling himself around behind a structural support beam with the bones of his legs grinding together with every step and stride until he was finally behind cover.

Popping back around the strut as quickly as his battered and abused body would tolerate, the Lancer Captain took aim with a blaster rifle he had recovered from one of his less fortunate warriors.

Pulling the trigger with a hand that stung in a way that promised broken finger bones, the Captain bared his teeth and activated an encrypted com-link.

A blaster bolt took him in the crown of the new helmet he had picked up along the push towards Main Engineering.

“I need cover fire on the catwalk,” he barked into his com.

For long seconds there was only dead air, and then someone groaned.

“Lancer,” he said sharply but there was no further response, “I said get up, warrior, and provide cover fire! You didn’t think the people of Hansel Suffic would be an easy target, did you?” he continued, speaking more to himself than to any of his fallen warriors.

“Yes sir,” someone said weakly, and a nearby plasma rifle snapped off a few shots up at the catwalk.

Darius poked his head out from cover long enough to see that the other warrior was in an exposed position. “Take cover, Lancer,” he instructed.

The other man stirred and then slumped back down before continuing to fire on the catwalk.

“My legs, Captain,” the other man apologized.

“You know the good thing about broken bones and battle-suits?” Darius growled, pulling himself back around as he started receiving fire. Then taking a pair of deep breaths he threw himself out from behind cover before he had time to think about what he was doing.

Each step an agony as bones ground their broken ends together, the Captain paused only long enough to bend down and snag the other Lancer’s arm as he staggered forward.

Several bolts to the back threatened to overbalance him, but the Captain Lancered on.

“No, Sir,” the Lancer said with renewed strength in his voice.

“It just hurts. The suit will put you on your feet and keep you moving with only a little effort,” the Captain said, dragging both himself and the other man around cover.

“Orders, Captain?” asked a third man, popping into Darius line of sight long enough to wave the barrel of his plasma rifle and attract the Captain’s attention.

“The same as when we came in here,” Darius replied evenly, “we’ll take Main Engineering or die trying.”

“Yes, Captain,” the other man replied firmly, echoed by the Lancer Darius had just drug into cover.

“Let’s get out there and fight!” he shouted, ignoring a body that felt more like pulverized meat than a warrior’s temple, as he laid waste to any movement he could see with his plasma rifle.

“For the Warlord. For Glory. For the Hold!” he screamed.

“Lyconesia!” roared the other warrior the one with the plasma rifle.

At the Captain’s feet, the man he had taken to cover leaned his body out far enough to take aim with his blaster rifle and add to the barrage aimed at the catwalk.

Knowing that with their limited number of still active Lancers something had to be done and fast, Darius made a snap decision and charged the catwalk.

****************************************************

“Not a lot of quit in these pirates, eh, Master Chief?” Tiberius said, poking just his blaster pistol and hand long enough for a shot before pulling it back, cursing at the hot bits of metal that showered it from a near miss.

There was no answer.

“Aubertine?” he snapped the question.

Scrambling onto all fours, the Engineering Lieutenant crawled back toward his last known position of the Master Chief as rapidly as possible.

Ahead was the clang of metal on metal, causing the Lieutenant to hesitate before moving even faster.

Poking his head around a corner, he recognized the battered armor of the Master Chief. Aubertine and a pair of his men were locked into hand to hand combat with one of the seemingly unstoppable pirates. The only problem was that the members of the Shore Patrol were too close to use their rifles, while the pirate had a vibro-sword.

They were too close for him to use his blaster pistol; he was just as likely to hit his own people as he was the pirate. Then his hands fell to his tool belt and he felt and discarded the multi-tool and auto-wrench as useless…maybe if he’d had five minutes and an unmoving subject he could have done some damage.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a plasma torch and his mouth hardened into a tight line. He started to reach for it and then stopped, hesitating. He had a deep-seated, personal dislike of plasma torches—in all their forms.

“Ornery Old Blighter,” he cursed, throwing himself at the plasma torch. This wasn’t the time for personal feelings; he had a job to do! Snatching up the torch, he activated it before jumping to his feet.

“I just have to get in close,” he muttered, staring at the pirate’s face plate. If he could blind him for just a few moments, it could make all the difference and give Aubertine the edge he needed. Then he hesitated, thinking that only a fool took on a man in a battle-suit when he was unarmored.

“Blast it,” he cursed and ran back to Fusion 3. Crouching over the emergency console built into the side of the generator, he ran a program to activate the heavy load suit he had automated to assist in jump-starting the Fusion generators by introducing an atomic pellet.

As soon as the heavy load suit had clomped out of the core, he gave it a wary glare. The thing was heavily radiated, so much so that if he hopped in it and didn’t get medical treatment soon after, he was going to be in a world of hurt.

Then he smiled.

Hopping over to the suit, he placed the plasma torch in the hands of the heavy work suit and then scrambled back to his console.

Only a fool exposed himself to that kind of radiation unless he had to—and Tiberius definitely did not have to. He had automated this suit just to avoid such a very occurrence, and what’s more, he could run the thing right here in the safety of Fusion 3!

Booting up the program, he instructed the heavy load suit to return to where he had last seen Aubertine and the pirate doing battle. Running it as fast as the suit could tolerate, the Engineering Lieutenant watched the screen on his console as the suit first maneuvered around the various obstacles in its way until he saw came upon the scene of the battle.

It was down to Aubertine and one other heavily damaged, Caprian battle-suit against the pirate—who didn’t look too good himself.

As Tiberius watched, before the load suit could reach them the pirate swing up his plasma rifle and shot Aubertine in the faceplate seconds before planting his vibro-blade in the guts of one of the Master Chief’s hastily mustered engineering levies—one of Tiberius’s drafted engineers.

Peeling his lips back in a snarl, and heedless of his own personal risk, the Engineering Lieutenant shouted a curse before tapping the controls to send load suit forward.

Built more for slow movements and the sort of fine control needed for dealing with a fusion core, the heavy load suit was slow and unwieldy, and for the first time the Lieutenant wished he had hopped into the suit, radiation or no radiation. But it was too late now; the milk had been spilt, as it were, and all that was left to do was see this through.

Lumbering forward at Tiberius’ command, the suit stepped within reach of the pirate and swung the plasma torch ponderously.

Tiberius cheered as the torch made contact with the pirate’s face place, and carefully maneuvering the other arm, he swung it at the pirate. If he could hit the other man—or even better, clinch with him—the power of the heavy suit would be telling.

Unfortunately the lumbering, automated suit only managed a glancing blow with its large, primitive ‘hands.’

Sparks flew as the battle-suited figure damaged the load suit’s right arm with his vibro-weapon.

The suit was just too slow, and Tiberius clenched his fists in frustration as he sent the suit lumbering forward. It didn’t have the speed, but maybe he could crush the pirate up against the wall and hold him there. Once pinned, the Engineer could possibly come along with his blaster pistol and finish the man off!

Putting both arms out wide in a clothesline attempt, the Engineer sent the suit forward.

He grinned as the pirate backed away, then backed up further still. He was seconds away from victory when there was a flash and the inputs from the load suit went dead.

Tiberius blinked and slammed his hands down on the keyboard. “No,” he shouted, attempting to start the reboot sequence. It was possible, although unlikely, that the Suit had been forced to shut down for some reason and could still be reactivated.

His fingers flew across the keyboard to no effect. He pounded on the keyboard yet again, but this time after he was done he heard footsteps which were clearly of a limping, duralloy battle-suit.

Tiberius closed his eyes.

“And all his Demon Imps,” he cursed as he slowly reached down to his holster. In one swift move, he spun up and around, leveling his pistol at the general head height for a battle-suit.

“Saint Murphy guid—” he yelled, squeezing off a wild shot right before the pistol was knocked out of his hand. Agony powerful enough to leave his hand numb and unresponsive seared through his wrist. The Engineering Lieutenant was driven to his knees clutching his arm, “My hand!”

The first brain-numbing flash of nociceptor action had subsided, and Tiberius was just starting to be able to think again when a crushingly strong, power-armored gauntlet gripped him around the neck and hauled him off his feet.

“How do I open the blast doors from this location?” the pirate demanded in an oddly accented voice, popping his helmet open.

The pirate released Tiberius’ agonizingly painful hand, the pirate kept hold of the Engineering Lieutenant’s neck—a grip which he used to hold him at least two feet off the ground. Tiberius stared down at the face of the pirate and tried to use his good hand to release some of the pressure on his neck.

“You’ve got Engineering tags and Officer rank,” the pirate growled. The pale, sweating face of the pirate belied the grim expression in his eyes—the one that said Tiberius’ life was as worthless to him as a damaged load-bearing joint in need to recycling.

The Engineering Officer’s mouth opened and closed, and then he looked at a point somewhere around the pirate’s forehead.

“Terrance Tiberius Spalding, Lieutenant, Caprian SDF, service number ENLT-P79543,” he tried to say the words stiffly, but what came out was a slightly gurgled response.

“The blast doors,” the pirate gave him a stern shake.

“Terrance Tiberius Spalding, Lieu—” the Engineering Lieutenant once again began to give his name, rank and service number—as it was the only thing required of him as a prisoner of war, according to the Dictates of Man and the Galactic Accords—but he was cut off.

“Spalding?” the pirate demanded suspiciously.

“Terrance Tiberius Spalding, Lieutenant, Service Number—” he started again.

“Any relation to the Chief Engineer, Commander Spalding of the Lucky Clover?” the pirate asked looking alarmed.

“Rot in Hades!” Lieutenant Tiberius shouted, the question breaking through his reserve.

The breath whooshed out of him as the pirate half threw, half slammed, him up against the wall. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’,” the pirate said scornfully and proceeded to restrain him using a bit of cord attached to his waist and cutting off a length with his vibro-weapon.

“For the people,” Tiberius shouted, trying to jerk himself free or force the pirate to kill him, “and death to piracy!” He knew what pirates did to skilled laborers like himself; neither death by torture or a lifetime of indentured slavery appealed to the young Engineer.

“Stay down and be quiet,” the man in the Battle-suit growled shaking him from side to side, “this is not a pirate operation. We are Confederation Lancers in the service of Warlord Montagne and his Mistress Wife.”

“One man, one vote!” the Lieutenant suddenly screamed, trying to attract attention. He didn’t care what happened to him; he refused to be a part of some Royalist Montagne takeover plot. It was bad enough what had happened to his world in the past rotation under the new Vekna King James! “If anyone is still alive out there, one of them’s over here. Take a shot. Take the shot! Don’t worry about me—just shoot hm. Citizenry triumphant! Citizenry triumphant! Free elections and death to the—”

The pirate slammed him headfirst into a console and everything became distant and spiraled into the black.

“—usurpers…” he mumbled before passing out.

Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Death Spiral

“Have you signaled again for their surrender?” Akantha demanded angrily, “offer them terms if they submit now. We can use the extra fifteen minutes it will save us in getting down to the planet!”

“I did, but I’ll relay the message again with the offer of terms, Hold Mistress,” Hecate replied.

“Good,” Akantha said as more and more hits penetrated the lone remaining, still functional, Caprian medium cruiser.

“I’ve got a response, Mistress,” Hecate said excitedly.

“Put it on,” Akantha commanded.

The figure of the Commodore Godefroi Troi, seated in a Command Chair on a smoke-filled bridge, appeared.

“Have you considered my terms?” Akantha asked as calmly as she was able.

The Commodore’s features were a hard mask. “The Citizen Defender will never yield,” he said flatly. “I’m only calling you back now so that you’ll stop wasting your time signaling my Comm. section asking for our surrender.” “I’m sorry you feel that way; your deaths will be hard,” Akantha said flatly.

“Parliament lies when is says we, active duty Royalists, don’t care for the people of the home world,” the Commodore declared.

“Mistress, he’s transmitting on all channels,” Hecate whispered in a loud voice.

“I’m not here to act as a message platform for you,” Akantha said icily.

“They are wrong!” Commodore Troi declared, ignoring Akantha’s reply.

“My Lady, the Citizen Defender is coming around and they’re headed straight for us. They intend to ram, Lady Akantha!” the Petty Officer at Sensors shrieked.

“No one loves the People of Capria more than her loyal, Royalist, SDF,” the Commodore thundered, “as we are about to prove to all and sundry!”

“Helm, bring us around and avoid their ram,” Akantha commanded, jumping out of her chair and leveling her sword at the main screen. “And get this fanatic off my screen.”

“For Capria,” Godefroi shouted.

“Now, Hecate; I don’t have time for this,” Akantha said furiously.

“For the Crown!” Godefroi snarled, shaking his fist at her. “And as always and forever, for the home world!” he roared, surging out of his chair right before his image disappeared from the screen. “The Citizen Defender is accelerating,” the Petty Officer said.

“Bringing engines up to maximum,” the war slave reported.

“We’re still savaging them with our turbo-lasers,” Isis reported in a calm voice which was at odds with the rest of the crew, “the Defender is venting from multiple rents in her hull armor and her shields collapsed several minutes ago. It is only a matter of time.”

“Time we might not have if they ram us,” Akantha said, “we need to avoid their attack while continuing to disable or destroy.”

“The Defender doesn’t have the acceleration, my lady,” the Navigator said relief in his voice, “they’re too slow to reach us! They’ll continue closing for another minute and then we’ll start pulling away.”

“Excellent news,” Akantha said with satisfaction. “Helm, maximize our angle so the turbo-weapons and other weapons bear as much as possible without allowing the enemy to get any closer.”

The Helmsman glanced over at her with alarm and disbelief on his face.

“You have your orders,” Akantha said icily.

“As you command, Hold Mistress,” he acknowledged, ducking his shoulders.

Akantha turned to Gants. “Advise me,” she said forcefully, “why do they continue this doomed attack run when they now know they cannot catch us, and could do more damage with their laser weapons?”

Gants looked at her helplessly. “I would have to say that, logically, either they’ve completely lost their minds or…they somehow think they can still damage us,” he finished, splaying his hands.

“How could they hurt us?” Akantha demanded. “Missiles? Lasers? If they were going to use lasers they could just do that from where they are.”

“I’m not sure, milady,” Gants said unhappily.

Then, exactly one minute from the time the Navigator had said the Citizen Defender would be on close approach…

“I’m getting some strange readings from the Citizen Defender’s Fusion Generators,” the Petty Officer reported.

“What are you seeing?” Akantha asked, right before the Caprian medium cruiser exploded with the Demon’s fury.

“Saint Murphy, avert!” Gants cried seconds later, as the ship began to gently rock from side to side. The ship gave one final, semi-vigorous shudder, and everything went still. “Damage report,” Gants demanded.

The Damage Control Officer looked at him with wide eyes before snapping his attention back to his console.

“Damage reports are minimal: no sign of serious damage from the explosion of the Citizen Defender,” he reported.

“Yes,” Akantha said, whirling her sword around her head—causing Gants to duck down and forward so far he fell out of his seat.

“My lady,” Gants said in a choked voice.

“To Capria!” she cried. “To vengeance! We can still get to the surface and back before the rest of their fleet arrives!” Hauling her sword up over her head, she jumped off the small, elevated command dais, which was nothing compared to the one on the Lucky Clover’s flag deck, but was more than enough for her to come down with enough force to split apart the empty chair next to the Helmsman.

“Bring us around, Helm, and none of your foot dragging,” she ordered exultantly. “Someone notify the Demons and prepare my shuttle if it is not already done; I want a direct transmission to our warrior teams on the surface. It is time to put this vendetta to bed!”

The Helmsman cowered over his console until her words penetrated, and then he scrambled to obey.

“But we still have to reduce the Orbital Fortresses! My lady, it isn’t safe,” Gants exclaimed, “plus what about the PP; there’s still a battleship out there unaccounted for.”

Akantha put her foot on the extra Helm chair and hauled with all her might until Bandersnatch came free.

“We’ve just received a message from the Parliamentary Power, my lady,” Hecate chimed in. “Captain Darius is reporting substantial casualties and requesting reinforcements…but they’ve done it! The Lyconese have taken the citadel!”

“We will find an opening and launch the shuttles to the planet while the Phoenix continues to level the enemy fortifications,” Akantha declared, brandishing her sword triumphantly. “Tell the Lancer Captain ‘good work,’ and get him those reinforcements if they are not already on their way. Get on the long talker with Atticus and inform him of the tactical situation; I have a shuttle to catch!”

Gants opened his mouth, no doubt to protest a flight through protected space.

“There is always an opening in the defenses,” Akantha laughed happily, refusing to let her good mood be soured. “Do not try to tell me otherwise, First Officer.”

“But, Akantha…my lady, there are planetary batteries based on the ground, in addition to the Orbital Forts and Defense Turrets,” Gants said with disbelief.

“Prepare a high speed pass to demolish as many of those ground-based defenses as possible, and release our shuttles at the best moment for a high speed defense,” Akantha said in a reasonable voice. “However, I will expect you to finish with the forts and de-fang the ground fortifications while I am dealing with James.”

“Your life cannot be risked like this, Lady Akantha! I mean, you’re the Admiral’s Wife,” Gants exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air. “We’re going to lose shuttles no matter what we do and if you’re on one when it goes down…what am I supposed to tell the Admiral?”

“Assuming he is still alive,” Akantha said sourly before shaking her head and forcing her good mood to return. “We are doing this, Gants,” Akantha said her mouth tightening, “my vengeance cannot wait; moreover, it will not wait. If we dawdle here the Caprian Space Fleet will come and we will have to withdraw or die. I refuse to have come this far, defeated all these foes, and allow everything we have fought and bled for to slip through our grasp!”

“B-B-But,” Gants stuttered.

“But nothing,” Akantha tossed over her shoulder, as she had already turned and was striding out the bridge. Passing through the blast doors, she tossed her hair and headed to the nearest lift. She had a shuttle to catch!

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Poor Man’s Missiles

“We have a signal from the ship,” Grogan’s voice thundered over their civilian com-gear, “and reading between the lines, the Ladyship herself is on the way…and you know what that means.”

“The Admiral’s going to kill us when he finds out?” Traian, ever the joker, deadpanned.

“Moron,” Vali quipped and punched Traian in the shoulder.

“It means,” Grogan said with forced patience in his voice, “that the op is a go: you’re green lighted.”

“And me without my rocket launcher,” Traian sighed.

“Let’s have some com-discipline,” Grogan yelled, “ye space gods, we’re only using civilian level encryption on these comm’s. Tuck it in, men, before you blow the op!”

“Sorry, Sir,” Vali said firmly.

“With regrets, Lieutenant,” Tray said in a small voice.

“If you and your goofing around have blown this mission, Traian-” the Lieutenant cut himself off, taking several deep and audible breaths over the com-link. “Grogan out,” he said flatly.

“All dressed up for the party…and me without my rocket launcher,” Traian sighed wistfully.

“You’re unbelievable,” Vali said angrily.

“Look, I’ll watch the chatter,” Tray said defensively, “but you have to admit what we need is a good missile spread—and we don’t even have a single, solitary rocket launcher among us…let alone the quad of missiles and suits of power armor we actually need!”

“We’re Lancers, we’ll make do,” Vali said stoically.

“What you mean is that you’ll make do; you’re a lucky blaggart Vali,” Traian cursed. “While me…I’m not so lucky. I’ll probably be killed during the opening salvo.”

Vali blinked and turned to stare at Tray.

“You not going to die just yet, Tray,” he said seriously.

“Oh and why not, your Majesty?” Traian asked with genuine curiosity mixed in with the condescension. “And don’t try to tell me it’s because my luck has suddenly turned around!”

“Because you’re the one who hotwired all these old junkers, and if anything goes wrong, first the Lieutenant and then probably her Ladyship is going want to talk with you,” Vali deadpanned. “As you know, when people of such high rank want to speak with a person so they can personally tear out his lungs, there’s no way he’d be lucky enough to get killed before they got their hands on him.”

“Blast,” Traian stared at him, “you’re ruddy right; I am screwed! There really is no way I can die before they get their hands on me.”

“See, Tray,” Vali said with satisfaction, “I knew I could cheer you up.”

There was a momentary pause while Traian processed this, then he yelled with outrage and snatched a greasy snack chip of unknown composition up off the dashboard whereupon he proceeded to smear it all over Vali’s face.

“Get off me!” Vali cried.

“It’s no more than you deserve, you miserable Galati reject!” Tray retorted.

“Look alive; we’ve got movement on the Palace Gardens,” Grogan’s professional voice crackled, banishing the impromptu feud like the hot desert sun melts a cube of butter. In one heartbeat, the two Lancers went from horsing around like schoolboys back to mission focused.

“Hobo One ready,” said the squad Sergeant.

“Clunkers Two and Three are a go,” Traian and Vali chimed in as the rest of the squad also sounded off their readiness.

“Team Five has eyes on the prize,” Grogan’s voice came back, filled with tension. “If he tries to make the heli-pad, Operation Contain and Detain will be put into action.”

“Yes, Sir,” the squad chorused.”

“Remember, we just have to keep him bottled up in the Palace until the cavalry arrives. Anything we can do to make it look too dangerous to leave, even if it costs us our unarmored lives, is on the table,” Grogan growled. “And remember: her Ladyship, the Admiral’s Wife, is counting on us.”

A tense half minute passed.

“All Hobos: hold your thunder,” Grogan ordered. “Clunker Units Two and Three, you are a go. I say again: green-green-green for go!”

“Larry that,” Vali acknowledged, reaching onto the dash for his data slate and pressing the activate button.

“Roger,” Traian said following suit before turning to Vali with a groan. “’Larry’ that?” he said with disbelief. “Now you sound more Grogan than even Grogan.”

“Shut up,” Vali quipped as the aged hover-car under his control took off from a nearby street and, its hover fans whining, launched itself into the sky. “And get your car into position. It doesn’t do any good for my hover-truck to play blocker if yours isn’t following!”

“Hold your horses, Galati,” Traian said scornfully, “unlike you, I’ve actually lifted and run a hot car through a defense barrier under combat conditions. Besides, I’m trying to deploy countermeasures here; have some respect.”

“Being shot in the bumper of your stolen car with a rubber bullet,” Vali lifted a single finger, “one time doesn’t give you some mythical, combat-hardened status for this operation.” Then he froze, “What do you mean when you say, ‘countermeasures’?”

“You didn’t think we were going to be able to just fly our remote controlled hover-cars over a defensive barrier like the palace without an edge, did you?” Traian said with disbelief. “Tray!?” Vali asked in a rising voice. “What did you do?”

“Nothing that we didn’t use in Cluj,” Traian said defensively. “You got to spoof the motion and thermal scanners somehow, and this always worked back home.”

Vali opened his mouth to demand answers in a much harsher tone when Tray laughed and showed him his data slate.

“See,” Tray grinned as several things exploded from the trunk of his hover-car mere seconds before the Palace hedge that defined its borders erupted. Leaves flew into the air and vaporized as chain guns and point defense lasers activated.

Miraculously, neither hover-vehicle was hit in that opening barrage, and Vali stared open mouthed as dozen thermal blankets, half a dozen children’s toy hover-copters, and packets of exploding, multi-colored popcorn went flying in every direction.

“It’s amazing what you can use to spoof a defensive system simply by going to the children’s party and novelty shops!” Traian howled with laughter, moving this way and that as he jerked his hover-car around in an evasive pattern.

Reluctantly, Vali started laughing as well. However, his laughter cut off as soon as his hover-truck was taken out by a pair of chain guns and a laser.

“This scheme of yours had better work,” he yelled.

“Trust me,” Tray called out just a second before his hover-car was shot down before reaching its target. “Blast!” he cried.

“You were saying?” Vali said flatly.

Traian opened his mouth and then closed it, giving the other Lancer a helpless shrug. “You win some, you lose some?” he asked hopefully.

Vali slammed his hands on the dash and stared towards the Palace in frustration.

“Operation Contain and Detain is still a go,” Grogan’s voice called out over their com-channel, “the target is still in play. He is retreating to the Palace to hole up; good work, team.”

Vali stared at his com-link with dismay, a feeling that quickly morphed into a growing smile of disbelieving joy. Then his shoulder erupted with pain.

“I told you it would work,” Tray said as he punched Vali in the arm a second time.

Vali turned to glare at him. “You’re too unlucky to die, Tray, you just remember that,” he growled. “Dying in the frontal assault on a planetary palace is too easy for you.”

Traian’s eyes widened.

“Let’s scoot before they back track our signal,” he suggested, rolling down his window and tossing his slate out.

Eyes widening with alarm, Vali did the same and then gunned the car. They had barely made the main-road when the alley they had been parked in erupted with a storm of rocket powered fire and fury.

“Oh, snap,” Vali yelled setting the hover-car for climb and then bailing out of the driver’s seat.

“What did you do that for?” Tray asked after following suit, and they started running away from the still moving car.

When the car took a direct laser shot to the driver’s position and went spiraling down in flames, only to be cut in half by chain guns before it reached the ground, Vali decided he didn’t have to say anything—he just needed to run for his life!

“Let’s hope they didn’t have us locked in a thermal scan,” he shouted, throwing his com-link head set as far away from him as he could manage.

After they had gotten rid of their com-links, the two men simply ran for their lives. They would have to go to the backup location and get new civilian com-gear later…

Assuming they made it, of course.

Chapter Forty: Rocket Woman

The contents of the Shuttle rocked from side to side inside the cargo bay. Being as the contents were Akantha, a hand full of Life Guards and a veritable horde of Sundered Demon Warriors, the cargo did so stoically.

“Hold on to your backsides,” the Shuttle’s pilot called out over the inter-com, “we just got the ‘go’ sign.”

Putting words to action, the shuttle suddenly went to full thrust under the Pilot’s command.

“Here we go…at last,” Akantha said with a thrill of anticipation. She would shortly be past all this sitting and standing around and finally be in a position to put her sword into something.

Everyone in the shuttle’s cargo bay was thrust into the back of their seats as the pilot sent the shuttle to full power. It took the grav-plates a precious split second to fully compensate.

“Yee-haw!” screamed the Pilot as the shuttle went into a stomach twisting series of maneuvers. “Engaging Imperial stealth systems now; they sure don’t make them like this anywhere else!”

Akantha grinned with pleasure before quickly correcting her demeanor into the more appropriate and reserved expression of a Hold Mistress.

Two minutes later, the shuttle shuddered again.

“We’re entering the atmosphere,” the Pilot reported, this time his voice turning deadly serious. “We’re taking ranging shots from the Orbital Forts and ground defenses, but the Phoenix is in position to providing cover and suppression fire. Temporarily, anyway. Planetary Defense knows we’re here but they can’t pinpoint us yet; stealth systems are still holding.”

Akantha activated the long-talker in her battle-suit. “I need you to take me to King James with all haste,” she shouted.

“Those are the orders,” the shuttle pilot replied, “and we’re following the coordinates received from the ground team.”

Akantha frowned at his lack of her courtesy but tossed it off as unimportant in the middle of an attack run. Or rather, it was still as important as ever, but reminding him about it at that particular moment would be worse than counter-productive.

“I don’t know how close we’ll be able to get to the Palace but we’ll give it our best,” he continued.

Akantha stiffened. “We will succeed,” she said coldly, not at all impressed with his less than fully positive attitude.

“Sorry ma’am,” the Pilot said after a short pause, “I just fly them into the teeth of core-world defensive system without a care in the world. I make no predictions about success or the future.”

Akantha suppressed a growl. “We will succeed,” Akantha repeated flatly.

The Pilot muttered something under his breath.

“Did you say something?” Akantha asked coldly.

“Yes,” the Pilot grunted as the shuttle’s main engine whined in protest, “I said ‘blast, that one was too close; ’they’re starting to zero in on us. I thought an Imp stealth system would do better than this!” Not a moment later there was a flash, and screams as a ground defensive fire tore through the side of the shuttle, killing some of the Sundered and badly burning others.

“World of Men,” Akantha cursed, turning to take in the damage to the shuttle and its warrior contingent.

“This is going to be tight,” the Pilot said tensely and the shuttle engine whined in protest. After a moment, he said, “Well, I’ve got some good news and some bad news.”

“Yes,” Akantha prompted in a no nonsense voice.

“The good news is that the ground defenses have only pinpointed two of the six shuttles in our landing squadron. They’re trying but it seems they don’t have a good lock on the rest of the shuttle squadron yet.

“That is good news?” Akantha said seriously.

There was an audible sigh. “The bad news is that we’re one of the two they’ve pinpointed,” there was a pause filled only with deep breathing, “Sweet Murphy, but those ground bases have powerful targeting sensors!”

“Just get us down in a way that still leaves us able to fight!” Akantha commanded imperiously.

“If you wanted that, someone should have mention the kind of fixed defenses they had on the ground to you before we launched,” the Pilot snapped. “By the Demon and all his angry imps, this is a stealthed combat shuttle, not some kind of flying mono-Locsium juggernaut! The fly is definitely in the ointment here.”

Akantha’s eyes narrowed right before the shuttle started shaking from side to side in a violent fashion. Something exploded close enough to the shuttle to throw her hard against the straps holding her and her battle-suit in place.

“We’ll make it!” she yelled over the sound of multiple explosions right outside the shuttle.

“Just because you want something doesn’t make it happen!” the Pilot shouted back right before a hit like no other struck the shuttle.

“Ahhh!” Akantha shouted in pain and outrage as another hole was knocked in the opposite wall of the shuttle, and a razor sharp duralloy shard pierced the side of her leg from back to front, cutting through the power-armor. The tip was, disquietingly, pointed directly at her face.

“The primary control line was cut and the secondary is damaged and the grav-plates have lost power,” the Pilot said in a deathly calm voice as the shuttle went into a tailspin.

The powerful weight pressing down on the Hold Mistress trapped her in her seat more effectively than the straps attached to the wall ever could have.

“We’re not going to make it,” the Pilot said dispassionately.

“I have every confidence in your flying skills,” Akantha ground out breathily, the force of the weight on her chest impacting her ability to speak as clearly and concisely as she might like.

“Thanks for the thought, but the Demon’s Monkey is definitely in Saint Murphy’s Wrench here because we’re going down and I just lost all control!” the Pilot reported, the sound of wind whistling over the long-talker indicating that not only was the shuttle’s cockpit open to air, but the pilot’s helmet was also.

“I cannot die with so much left undone,” Akantha said, locking her eyes on the back wall and the battered, bloodied, and in some case burnt to a crisp Demon Horde in her shuttle. “Besides, I have some Demons of my own!” With a grunt of pure, herculean effort, Akantha broke the straps holding her to the forward wall of the shuttle’s cargo/troop bay. A sharp, half roll forced her to grab hold of the wall for support. Her initially scrambling hands skittered across, and then stopped beside, a full-body grav-board.

“Our wings have just been clipped and the Pilot can no longer control our flight. It’s time to jump off this metallic riding beast they call a shuttle and take our chances in the air,” Akantha informed her Demon minions.

Locking one of her arms to the grav-board and not bothering to see who was prepared to follow her lead she reached for the first in a series of hand-holds set at chest level around the sides of the shuttle. The force of their flight was too powerful with the magical grav-plates no longer working and she was unable to walk without falling and crashing into something—or someone.

So with grim determination, she pull-staggered along the wall until reaching an exit: in this case, a woman sized hole in the side of the shuttle created by enemy fire. Without further ado she threw herself out the shuttle.

She soon discovered that flailing in mid-air was of little help in finishing her attachment to the grav-board, and after precious seconds of freefall she mastered her movements enough to lock her other arm and one of her legs onto the board.

The force of activating the grav-board rammed her head forward into the board hard enough to jolt her teeth together, but seconds later she was under a semi-controlled flight.

Looking back up toward the shuttle, at first she thought none of the Demons had followed her. Then she recalled that only she and a handful of her Life Guards aboard the shuttle had been in possession of grav-boards.

The back ramp of the shuttle fell open, and black-furred Sundered forms—minus grav-boards—began falling out the back of the shuttle.

Akantha blinked rapidly in surprise. These creatures really had truly held to their oaths to follow her, even though their chances of survival had just gone from minimal to non-existent. Wondering if she could save any of them. She directed her board toward the nearest Sundered who had by now turned to point itself headfirst in her direction.

Slewing around, there was a flash of light mere feet away from her position in the air and the Hold Mistress’s battle-suit began droning monotonous warnings about close-range laser fire.

Realizing the danger, she began steering the board in an erratic pattern but within seconds it became clear that the board had ceased responding. Looking down, she saw a head-sized hole through the side of the board.

She tried everything she knew, but the grav-board was broken and refused to respond. She slammed her free knee against the board but still nothing.

Her com-link pinged. “Prepare for close approach,” someone said, with what sounded like a lip smack.

“What?” Akantha asked, taken aback even as her grav-board lost its forward motion and almost leisurely pointed her face-down to the ground before entering a death spiral.

“We will render assistance to the Hold Mother,” said the mellow sounding voice right before something grabbed her from the sides slowly pulling her out of a spin.

Akantha looked over with surprise at the pair of smaller demon-kind that had a hold of her arms and realized it was a pair of females. Much like her people, the males were the predominant warriors in Sundered society, so the presence of females was unexpected.

“I thank you for the assistance, but as we are we all to die anyway I doubt I will be able to properly show my gratitude,” the Hold Mistress said coolly, noting the lack of grav-boards among the females. “Unless you are expecting a rescue?” she added, glancing up and seeing not a single grav-board riding to the rescue.

Through their modified head bags, the Hold Mistress could see the creatures share a look and then exposed their large, blunt teeth in a demonic smile.

“We are only falling fast now, Mother,” the same one that had spoken before said. “We will slow when closer to the ground so they have less time to shoot us,” she added, reaching toward her chest. At first, the Hold Mistress thought the creature was adjusting her chest because of the powerful winds, but then she saw the creature expose some kind of harness.

“An old-style, Imperial Grav-Harness, two generations out of date and twice been refurbished,” the female explained, blowing a raspberry, “but between the two of us we will get you to the ground.”

“A grav-harness?” Akantha repeated at the top of her lungs, taking a moment to process this new information. She was apparently not about to die after all. A slow smile began to spread across her features. “Then take us directly to the Palace, and for your efforts I will see that each of you received a land plot to be handed down to your daughters or designated nieces for the continuance of your line.”

“Go down to the Palace direct is sudden death. We will down close by in countryside and skim closer at a tree level until we hit the Palace outer ground level defenses,” the Sundered Demoness said.

Akantha frowned down at the ground, trying to spot the Palace with her bare eyes but was unable to do so. “Do not fail me,” was all she said in response to this correction of her plan.

Chapter Forty-One: The Palace Rumble

The females were as good as their word as not only did their grav-harnesses halt the fall to their deaths, but they landed out in a land of low, rolling hills and wood lots.

For a time they hovered a few woman lengths above the ground, and in her armor Akantha imagined she looked like some kind of giant bee or other insect in a dull, bronze carapace.

“We must move faster,” Akantha commanded as explosions sounded ahead of them in the direction of a Palace she had only fleetingly viewed on the way down. Overhead, a shuttle screamed toward their target, black furred figures falling out the back of the shuttle even as lasers and rockets fired from the nose and wings of the Imperial style shuttles.

There was an exchange of rockets and laser fire from the ground followed by the shuttle streaming smoke and crashing to the ground, with the noise of its impact overshadowed a half-second later by a massive explosion.

“Whether haste or caution is called for, we can’t go any faster with your weight on these grav-harnesses,” said the Sundered.

Akantha bestowed a level look at the two.

“A grav-board is big and powerful; a harness on the other hand, be it ever so smaller and wiser in its energy use,” the female gave Akantha a knowing look, “still lacks the sheer size and brute strength of a board.”

“What my battle-sister is trying to say is you’re too heavy in this gravity,” the other Sundered said.

“I already gathered that,” Akantha said severely, “however, I have a simple solution to this problem: set me down.”

After being placed on the ground, the speed of their little group did in fact increase, and along the way they collected about a dozen other warriors—all of whom were converging on the Palace.

Reaching a large hedge and hearing the sounds of battle just beyond it, Akantha bared her teeth hungrily and drew her Bandersnatch.

“Forward,” she cried, swinging her sword forward and hacking a hole in the hedge. Half way through the hedge she encountered a black cord which sparked and flared as her sword severed it, and miniature lighting sparked all around the blade but failed to travel up its length to her hand. She also noted a small camera with a blaster attached to a thin, metal pole.

The camera initially moved quite fast, but after the cord was severed began spinning towards her before slowing, and the single bolt its blaster fired barely even scratched the surface of her armor before both blaster and camera went limp.

Laying all about her, Akantha carved her way through the shrubbery until she had reached the other side. “Find me this man who calls himself King,” she shouted, bursting through the hedge.

“For the Holding, for a Place-to-Stand!” the large, male Sundered thundered in unison with much slapping of weapons against their armor as they burst through the path she had opened in the hedge.

Seeing quads of power-armored guards swarming out of an underground entry way onto the outer Palace grounds, where Akantha and the other shuttle forces had already reached, the warriors with Akantha charged.

“Today is a good day to die. A good day,” Akantha gave vent to her battle cry. “For Messene!”

Chapter Forty-Two: Heavy Lies the Crown

“More of the genetic mutations, monsters and AI Uplifts are penetrating the southwestern perimeter, my King,” the Noble Advisor from West Sussex said urgently. “We must evacuate the west wing!”

“It was your advice that saw us in here,” James spat, then swiveled around to look at the half dozen members of the Privy Council assembled behind the powerful, ballistic windows of the West Wing for a better view of the situation. “All of your advice,” he added savagely, “that brought us to these straits. If only I’d never listened to your poisonous, viper’s tongues, I would be safe and half way to the Capitol by now!”

“Running from the Palace while the Royal Caprian SDF was still believed to be able to stop an attack would have been political suicide,” said a well-dressed man in stylish, purple clothes and carrying the royal scepter. “That car-bomb was a godsend in that it made your attempted flight to the hover-pad look like you were worried about an internal threat, and not running like a coward from these vicious little pirate scum, your Majesty.”

“You,” James cursed giving the word an entire freight of disgusted meaning, “you, our Royal Chancellor, and your incessant political nattering are more than anything else the reason why We, the Royal person, are in dire jeopardy for our life! If only We had fled this wretched excuse for the Winter Palace when We had the chance! That would have only been common sense,” he snapped, pointing outside to the AI dregs, even now assaulting the Palace grounds, for emphasis, “and you dare to call it cowardice and thus, your King, a coward?!”

“I only say what your detractors would say,” the Chancellor said, bowing low, “perhaps I spoke in ill-considered haste.”

King James turned red in the face and then whirled around to face the attack. “This is all the fault of that Messene Bitch!” he raged, grasping hold of his vibro-dagger until his knuckles turned white, “the balls on that woman, Chancellor; to demand that I, the King of this Realm, come to answer for crimes,” he sputtered with outrage before taking a few deep breaths.

“Outrageous, Sire,” the Noble Advisor cut in with fervent support.

“And calling herself a Sovereign Individual—just who does this primitive think she is?” King James sneered, puffing himself up furiously.

“The utter gall, my King,” agreed the Advisor from West Sussex.

“I don’t need a sycophant to soothe my ego and scratch my arse, Advisor,” James said cruelly, but settling slightly before he continuing in a mock disbelieving tone. “I mean, who would have thought it possible that my ineffectual dunce of cousin’s concubine of a Mistress would be more formidable than the flat-nosed little weasel himself?!” he pounded his fist on a nearby table for effect. “If he wasn’t already in line for execution, I would consign Jason Montagne to the tender mercies of the Bunker for all the trouble he has caused both Us!”

“We had no reason to believe—” the Chancellor interrupted soothingly.

“A barbarian, Palpatine! Get that through that little pea-sized brain of yours,” James said angrily. “Honestly! How can one stone-aged trollop, used to living in squalor, cause so many problems up and down the board!”

“In primus, I would remind his majesty he is not your cousin; he is in fact your nephew,” the Noble Advisor from West Sussex began pendaciously, “and in Secundus, I do believe the briefing materials indicated she was the product of a feudalistic, maternal, metal-working society. The title ‘Mistress’ being given to—”

“Oh, in the fie, Djionisio,” James slashed a hand through the air. “The age gap is so low that I actually went to school at the same time as that little twerp. Calling me his uncle is like saying your spouse is an under-aged trophy wife: accurate in the context, no doubt, yet demeaning nonetheless—and what’s this with correcting your King?! Enough with the background elucidations; this is not some primer school report!”

Djionisio of West Sussex stiffened.

“Your Majesty if I might direct your attention to outside,” Palpatine said, clearing his throat.

“Remind me again why we don’t have a bunker in this place,” James snapped. “If I know my ancestors—and King Larry knows I had to study and write enough reports about them in school growing up—then I know for a fact that they were too paranoid to build a Palace without a protected facility in its bowels.”

“After the ‘reconstruction’,” Palpatine cleared his throat delicately, “failed,” he coughed and looked to the side, “Parliament went through every royal facility with a fine-toothed comb and systematically closed every bolt hole they could find. In the case of the Winter Palace, they filled the fortified bunker created by your ancestors with concrete, to ensure they could never escape the long arm of the Elected Government.”

“And we couldn’t just dig it out in the rotation we’ve been in power?” James rising voice betrayed his frustration.

“As his Majesty will recall, in the beginning we had other concerns than bolt holes. Securing power, for instance,” Palpatine sighed.

“Blast that blighter Janeski to the outer darkness!” James snarled, pulling out his vibro-dagger, activating it, and then slamming it into the ballistic window that was all that protected them from the raging firefight taking place on the palace grounds. “He promised us a return to power in exchange for a single battleship, and then he went and stabbed us in the back!”

“Beware Imperials bringing gifts,” Djionisio, the Noble Advisor from West Sussex, muttered and the other members of the Privy Council murmured their agreement.

“Exactly,” James cried.

“You will recall, your Sovereign Majesty, that he did facilitate the rise of the Monarchy—in the person of yourself—from a Queen Regent who reigns merely in name, back to the mighty figure of a King that actually rules,” Palpatine soothed.

“The People’s Initiative, the Citizen’s Rights, the Lucky Clover, and an entire squadron of heavy cruisers,” the King said coldly. “Meaning three battleships, and every other major SDF unit we had worked up at the time he arrived in-system. That Imperial Admiral took far more than he said he would and delivered far less. The deal, as I understand it, was for him to eliminate our House’s Parliamentarian rivals like he did the Royal family during the reconstruction, and place my beloved Aunt, the former Regent, in power. Yet to my eyes, all he did was demonstrate from orbit and spur the people’s beloved elected class to lock themselves inside that infernal Bunker of theirs.”

“Your Majesty has proven both wise and politically adept in maneuvering himself onto the Throne,” Palpatine said simply.

“I’m not a fool, unlike my Uncle who thought the people would allow a regicide to sit easily on the throne,” James gloated.

“Recording and then releasing a vid of the former Head of the Vekna family wrapping his hands around our beloved Queen Regent’s neck and attempting to strangle her to death on the eve of Selection proved an inspired move,” agreed Palpatine.

“I knew that if I kept my eye on that old schemer, something good would come of it,” he said, thinking of how his sister had placed the bug that brought down his Uncle and his face darkened. “None of which has anything to do with why my palace bunker is still filled with cement!”

“There are two parts,” Palpatine said with a shake of his head, “the first is that, if you will recall, your Majesty refused to remodel the East Wing, which is what would have been necessary to bring in the heavy equipment necessary to drill out the bunker in short order.”

“I so recall,” James said flatly, “and the second?”

“Due to the crystalline like deposits found in the cement, we have determined that the Parliamentary land forces who sealed the royal retreat in the East Wing used an extraction of sticky rice to mix within the concrete.”

“Rice? What the blazes does rice have to do with anything,” the King said looking perplexed.

“Sticky Rice,” Palpatine corrected, “you see, it is said that back on Ancient Earth, in times nearly lost to antiquity, that a people called the Chin built a wall which encircled the entire world. To build a wall able to meet the test of time, they experimented with various forms of mortar and discovered that by introducing a special type of rice into the mix, they were able to create a type of primitive cement that was actually stronger than the blocks it joined together.”

“A fascinating history lesson,” Palpatine sighed, “and also one that couldn’t have been less appropriate while Genetic Mutants are advancing on the palace.”

James gave the Royal Chancellor a withering look and gesturing toward the battle lines which had, at this point, reached half way across the previously well-manicured royal gardens.”

“My apologies,” Palpatine said bowing low.

“When will the nearest reinforcements arrive?” James finally demanded after a long moment of chewing his upper lip.

“As my King will remember,” the Noble Djionisio from West Sussex said, cutting in with a pointed look at Palpatine, “there is a battalion level detachment of Territorial Land Forces secretly stationed in the royal preserve. They can be here within fifteen minutes,” he said with a superior look toward the Chancellor.

James looked at him with lowered brows. “Do you take me for a fool, Noble Advisor to the King?” James said in a dire voice.

“Why, no,” Djionisio looked taken aback.

“Because it’s been more than fifteen minutes since the first shuttle attack on the palace and there are still no reinforcements for the Palace Guards,” the King said with deliberate venom.

“As my fellow privy member may have failed to notice, in all the confusion the barracks for those Royal Army detachments based in the Preserve have been attacked and destroyed by an orbital strike from that abortion of an Imperial Strike Cruiser,” Palpatine said with a faint, yet clearly very satisfied, smirk on his face.

James closed his eyes for a brief moment and then opened them. “When can the nearest Land Forces detachment reach the Palace?” he asked.

Palpatine cleared his throat. “As you may recall—” he started.

“Just give it to me straight, Chancellor,” the King of Capria ordered, “without all the ‘you may remember’ garbage. Telling me I’ll remember something at this point is only threatening to shorten your tenure as Royal Chancellor.”

“Of course,” Palpatine said smoothly, “while all of the Caprian Army has sworn an oath to you as their new king, under half of those same Land Forces have anything close to what I would call loyalists and…” he said, pulling out a data slate and tapping away on it. After reading something on that screen his face fell, “It would seem that all the loyalist units within range of the palace are either destroyed or already fully engaged with the Mutants.”

“Blast those Uplifts; they should have all been purged during the Revolution against the AI. If there’s one mistake Larry made, it was failing to hunt them down and slaughter every single one of them he could have gotten his hands on,” James grated, turning red in the face before visibly calming himself. “Alright then,” he continued, taking a deep, calming breath, “if the Royal Guards are being overwhelmed and all loyalist Land Forces elements have been destroyed then I guess we’ll just have to bite the bullet and call in the Marines.”

Palpatine blinked rapidly.

“Problem?” James asked sharply.

“No problem,” he said hesitantly.

“Your voice makes me think that there is, or that there might be,” James said with narrowed eyes. “|I realize that most Marine units have followed their Commandant and thrown their historic neutrality in internal domestic affairs in the trash heap of history and firmly declared themselves for Parliament. However, there are several units we have been assured are determined to hold true to their apolitical roots. If we can’t get loyal troops to the palace on short notice then a sub-orbital flight of a neutral, third party, determined only to protect this planet from outside invaders would seem the safest route to go.”

“I’ll try,” Palpatine said with renewed firmness as he entered something on his tablet, smiling in satisfaction when he was finished. “There, the message has been sent.”

“Good,” James said before adding, “oh, and get us an ETA.”

Palpatine turned back to his data-slate and his smile slowly faded. “The message has been sent but for some reason we’re not getting a response,” the Royal Chancellor stated.

“Are we being jammed?” the King asked sharply.

“Not as such,” Palpatine said looking perplexed, “the message is getting out through only a limited interference. No…the problem seems to be on the receiving end. The request for support is being blocked somehow.”

“They lied,” James said slamming his fist onto the table, “they played me for a fool and I walked right into it.”

Palpatine continued tapping away.

“We’re using hard-lines; the message is getting through. I’m getting what appears to be an initial connection to the regional marine server. Someone, or something, must be blocking the message from getting to the specific units though because I’m not getting any return message from my man in marine battalion headquarters,” the Chancellor said with a frown. “Everything passes his desk and he would send an automated acknowledgement.”

“He’s either turned as a double or is dead,” James growled.

“Extremely unlikely in either scenario,” Palpatine replied with a shake of his head. “There are…contingencies. No, our message must have been intercepted en route.”

James hesitated before his face hardened. “All of which is completely irrelevant,” he said evenly, “any reinforcements for the Palace are either already here, or are so far away that by the time they arrive this battle will have been decided.”

“What is your will, oh King?” the Advisor from West Sussex said quickly.

“We must withdraw,” the King declared, “the Royal Person cannot be imperiled.”

“Of course, my liege,” the Adviser said bowing.

“The hover-pad has been compromised, not to mention having sustained severe damage from the terrorist attacks with the hover-cars,” Palpatine interjected.

“No doubt all part of a coordinated uprising of pro-Montagne elements secretly in contact with this pirate plague from Messene,” James declared.

“A crackdown on such elements will of course be required—as soon as we are free of this mess and the situation is stable,” Palpatine murmured.

“We will start with his mother,” James smiled cruelly.

“The mother of the Great Traitor, Montagne, must have been in contact—perhaps even helped arrange the attack upon your person,” Palpatine agreed with an eye roll. “But perhaps we should refrain from calling this a ‘pirate attack’ any longer.

James scowled and lifted an eyebrow.

“No pirate attack has ever reached the surface before, let alone the Palace itself. To suggest such a thing will be taken as a sign of weakness by our opposition as soon as things…settle,” the Chancellor explained. “No, this was an act of war by a foreign planetary government—one that needs to be taught a lesson, perhaps?”

“Whatever is needed to sell this to the commoners,” the King said, waving it away as unimportant. “As ever, I rely on you and your research teams to compile a report for my ultimate decision.”

“I live to serve,” Palpatine gushed, hiding his face behind a fluttering hand as he gave a short bow.

“You do,” James said with a hard look. “However,” he gestured towards the crumbling Palace defenses, “we must avant! It would not do for a King to be captured by a rabble of Border trash.”

“The Royal Retreat is filled with cement and the hover-pad has been compromised,” Palpatine reminded. “As of this moment we have to worry not only about these invaders, but also that Parliament may be preparing to make a move to leave the Bunker and reclaim its power. The airways cannot be entirely trusted.”

“There is always more than one way to skin a cat,” the King declared. “You and you,” he said, pointing to the Baron of Armoire and Marchionese of Anabella, both members of his Privy Council who were currently out of favor, “each of you take a speedy hover-car from the basement and make for the nearest neutralist Marine detachment. If you do this, you will have regained my Royal Favor.”

The two stared at him, the realization of their impending doom on their faces.

“Go!” he barked, and the pair scrambled to leave his presence.

“And for us?” the Noble Advisor pressed, his eyes darting around the remaining Councilors for support.

“We will take the servant’s corridors,” James replied, sweeping up a pair of Royal Armsmen with his eyes. “There’s a hidden postern gate in the storm drain.” Palpatine sucked in his breath and the King gave him a hard, calculating look. “My ancestors had the ingenuity; my current advisers may have failed me but a King knows to always have an appropriate exit strategy,” he met and held the eyes of the Chancellor, who should have had a better way of preserving the life and freedom of his king. “Heavy lies the burden of the crown,” he said with thick irony as he smirked, “but I am not ready to lay it down just yet.”

Around the pair, the rest of the Advisors bowed low with looks of palpable relief on their faces.

“Your Majesty,” they said, hands fluttering as they bowed low before their King.

“”Come, Councilors,” James said with a grin, “we should leave before the trash arrives. It’s time to bug out!”

Chapter Forty-Three: Storming the Palace

“Toss me over,” Akantha ordered. There were enemy warriors behind the wall she was leaning against, using it as an improvised fortification.

A pair of large, male Sundered Demon sex changed a look and then slammed their hands into the ground with resounding force. Pushing themselves back upright, as they came back to an upright position each male grabbed one of her legs and, without asking if she was ready, threw her into the air with a mighty bellow of effort.

The Hold Mistress gave a yelp as she went almost straight up and barely cleared the wall, to land flailing in the midst of the Palace defenders.

A woman is not meant to fly like a rock. A bird, perhaps, she silently allowed as she smoothly rolled to one knee, her Bandersnatch clearing its sheath in one smooth movement. But she now realized that uncontrolled falls were beneath the dignity of a Polis leader. Falling to a planet on a grav-board or harness was one thing, but landing on her backside in the middle of her enemies was another.

None of which stopped her from sliding her Dark Sword of Power through the belly off the man behind a crew-served blaster-cannon.

A close range bolt to the side of her armored torso shook her body, but not her aim, and lunging to her feet Akantha thrust her sword through the visor of the blaster wielder.

Metal clashed against metal as the third and final man of the blaster-cannon team attempted to split her helmeted head with a crystal tipped, duralloy boarding axe of some type.

The Hold Mistress gritted her teeth with exertion, even as her heart exalted in the personalized destruction of her enemies. “No more sitting in a chair,” she shouted, forcing the axe to the side. Taking advantage of the temporary relief from the clinch, she drew back and lashed out with her sword.

The remaining guard blocked her blow with the flat of his axe and brought his weapon around for a powerful overhand attack.

A roaring from around the corner of the wall heralded the arrival of the same pair of Sundered Demon warriors who had tossed her.

Dodging the axe through the use of fancy footwork and a block with her sword, Akantha was unable to regain an attack position before the Demons fell on the Palace guard, hacking at him with their swords and enveloping him with plasma fire from their rifles.

Realizing she was as likely to strike her own retainers as the Palace Guard, she frowned with frustration and turned away.

Seeing another target in the form of a quad of Guards—half in battle-suits and half in light armor thrown over their colorful uniforms—the Hold Mistress took up her blaster rifle in her off-hand and charged. Fire sprayed from her blaster-rifle, sending one of the unarmored figures staggering back while the second dropped quivering to the ground from a less-than-precise headshot.

“Come on, lads,” shouted one of the battle-suited guards over his external speakers, “put the boots to these AI freaks!” The Guard gestured emphatically, encouraging more forces out of sight to come forward.

Akantha leapt forward, aiming and firing one-handed with her shots spraying over the position of the two guards while drawing back her Bandersnatch for an overhand blow.

“Are you scared of these freakish pansies?” the warrior with what she saw were sergeant hashes on the arms of his battle-suit sneered, seemingly ignoring his fate—as well as the blaster bolts shooting on and around his power-armor. At the last moment the Palace Sergeant calmly raised his blaster weapon and shot her in the visor. Despite her vision being obscured by a bright flash and her head rocking back from the force of the shot, Akantha still brought her Dark Sword over and down with punishing force.

Metal clanged on crystal and her sword was deflected to the side which, when combined with the visor-shot, placed her off balance. Bringing her elbow back, she slammed the sergeant in his torso armor. Forcing herself back upright, she drew back her Bandersnatch for a finishing thrust and her legs flew out from under her.

Straightening from his leg sweep the Sergeant stepped on the wrist of her sword arm, and with the other foot started stomping on her, all the while still ordering his men.

“This isn’t the parade ground,” the Sergeant snarled aloud, “it’s time to take the gloves off and put the boots to them. Larry onward, you cowards!” he shouted, pointing his rifle at her head.

Bucking and writhing, Akantha dodged the first rifle bolt and while an attempted leg sweep failed to knock the Guard Sergeant off his feet, it did make him jump backwards, freeing the hand holding her sword.

With a sound of womanly, warrior frustration, Akantha lunged to her feet. Her sword arced upward toward the sergeant’s gut as behind her the Sundered roared. The pounding of heavy feet could be heard closing on her position but before her sword could make contact and gut the Palace Guard, she was hit in the back of the head with a loud, metallic clang, the force of which was enough to stun her.

“Drive them back, you lugs. What? Are you afraid of a few Uplifts?” roared the Caprian Sergeant.

“Man, not Machine!” cried the assembled fire team.

“Forward!” raged the Sergeant, and the Palace Guard charged.

Akantha shook her head to clear the stars she was seeing and slowly got to her hands and knees.

“Tough little blighter, aren’t you?” the Sergeant snorted at Akantha—who was actually taller than he was.

“Push,” bellowed half a dozen Demons, leveling swords, spears and blaster weapons and advancing.

The two forces met with a clang, and after a shot that disabled her shoulder actuator with a single blast and another ear ringing kick to the head, the Sergeant was engaged axe and blaster to sword and plasma rifle with a pair of Sundered males and was forced to turn his attention away from the Hold Mistress.

For a long pair of seconds it was all the Hold Mistress of Messene could do to keep from falling over and fouling her helmet with the contents of her stomach. As hairy feet and duralloy-shod boots stomped around her, Akantha gave her head a shake and with a wobbly arm pushed herself off the ground. Through all of it, she never once lost her grip on her sword.

With a lurch, she threw herself back into the fray. Sparks flew and metal groaned as she slashed her Bandersnatch across the back of a Palace Guard in a battle-suit.

Blood began pouring down the back of the suit and the guard’s back arched in agony. Reaching around and clawing at the wound, the guard fell to the ground writhing.

Meeting a vibro-sword with her Dark Sword of Power, servos whined and protested as the Tracto-an woman went toe to the toe with Caprian guard.

The Guard adjusted his grip and through his visor she could see his dark-skinned face twist with exertion, then the man let go of his sword with one hand and punched her in the visor.

The Hold Mistress’s head rocked back and she again saw stars. Fighting her increasingly unsteady legs, Akantha bared her teeth in a snarl and redoubled her efforts to shove the man to the side.

“Don’t let these overgrown monkeys shake you,” barked the voice of the Caprian Sergeant over a battle-suit speaker. “For the Crown!”

Blaster and plasma bolts flew at close range but Akantha was too focused on the razor’s edge of life and death to notice as she pushed the guard back, one grim step at a time.

Locking eyes with the guard, she saw his attention focus beyond the visor to the face behind it and his lips moved in some kind of exclamation.

“The pirate Queen,” he cursed over his speakers. “You’ll take no slaves for your fleet here!” he shouted, muscling her to the side and slamming his helmet into her face a second, then a third time.

“You dare call me a road bandit?!” Akantha was taken aback and then fury surged through her. “Where is your King?!” she screamed, continuing his move to the side with one sudden unexpected movement and dumping him face-first on the dirt.

She thrust downward with her sword and rejoiced as her blade bit deep into his shoulder.

The bellow he issued, like a bull deep in the rut faced with a challenger to his herd, took her by surprise and she whirled around to see where it came from. A rush of metal and movement was too quick for her to register before she could raise her guard, and metal scraped on metal as something slammed into her torso. She barely had time to realize someone in power-armor had grabbed her before she was slammed back-first into a wall like the one the Demons had tossed her over.

Akantha grunted and drove the hilt of Bandersnatch into the back of her enemy’s head, to little effect. She was still flailing ineffectually when stone exploded and the pair crashed through the wall.

“You have something that belongs to us,” the voice of the very same Sergeant who had given her so much trouble reached her ears.

Akantha kicked at his legs but the sergeant jumped over her attack and then landed on her still extended leg hard enough to damage her leg servo and send agony through her actual leg beneath it.

An overhand blow with his axe would have split her head open, helmet or not, had she not interposed her sword. With only one functional shoulder joint, due to suit damage, and now a damaged leg, things were not looking up for the Hold Mistress and she knew it.

When the blow came it nearly knocked the sword out of her hands, with her power assisted gauntlets unable to fully overcome the powerful attack.

Swiping her sword along at heel level forced the Sergeant to step back, and that was all Akantha needed to regain her feet. She swayed, more than a little surprised as she had never been knocked down and beaten around thus since she last sparred with the best Argos had in the sword ring.

“Who are you?” she said with disbelief, to see one of the Starborn with seemingly superior hand to hand skills. That they were better with pistols, rifles, and all other manner of technological wizardry was no surprise but this particular skill was unexpected.

The Sergeant crouched, readying his axe and started to circle her. “Ian Tuttle, Sergeant in the Palace Guard and Royal Armsman to his Majesty King James. How do you do?” said the man, this Ian, with the barest head nod. “Now you’re gonna die!”

Akantha snorted and had to dodge a lightning fast attack in response. She countered with a thrust. The thrust was parried to the side.

“I’ve heard the name Tuttle before,” Akantha shuffle-stepping to the side of an overhand chop, and each time she placed weight on her damaged leg fire arced up and down the limb.

The Sergeant shook his head and for a time there was nothing except attack and parry, and each exchange saw sparks fly from Akantha’s armor.

Seeing he wasn’t about to rise to the bait, she narrowed her eyes. “My sample is small: only yourself and Connor. But it seems to me your family has a history of skilled and loyal service to a House filled with backstabbers and betrayers,” she said mockingly.

The Sergeant stiffened and Akantha smirked as Ian Tuttle growled, launching himself at her.

Even though it was what she wanted, the Hold Mistress was forced to scramble to meet the offensive. Slash-bang-thrust, and Akantha was once again fighting for her life.

“You are good…but not that good,” Ian said with a kick to her midsection that sent her rolling, teakettle over spout.

Arching her back, Akantha jumped to her feet in one slightly off-balance movement.

“Goodbye, pirate Queen,” Ian snarled, and there was a click followed by a high pitched whine as a plasma grenade went critical.

Akantha’s eyes widened and the Sergeant threw the grenade at her in a smooth, underhanded motion, sending the grenade bouncing and rolling right at her position.

With only one leg, it was hard to spring away as fast as she would have liked to. Moving for all she was worth, Akantha still wasn’t able to move fast enough to escape the expanding plasma explosion, which picked her up and threw her another ten feet. Despite the fact that she was tall, muscular woman encased in a suit of solid duralloy, she was still tossed around like mouse in a tin cup when the woman of the house came home.

Landing on her front, Akantha groaned and some sixth sense alerted her to impending danger as she rolled onto her back just in time to see Sergeant Ian mid-jump, his axe raised to finish her off. Throwing herself into a roll right back the way she had come—the direction of the explosion—she gave a wild swipe of her sword at the Sergeant. It missed, as did the Sergeant’s axe when it slammed into the sod, leaving a large gash in the professionally maintained grass rather than the Hold Mistress’s helmet.

Following after her like some kind of demented wood-chopper, Sergeant Tuttle left a series of divots in the beautiful palace grounds.

“Hold still and this’ll be over quick,” the Sergeant growled.

Gritting her teeth, but unable to waste any time with words, the Hold Mistress kept scrambling away from the Palace Guard. She realized she had rolled back into the blast-zone of the plasma grenade when she encountered the black and still-steaming ground.

She heard the thunder of feet and then a Sundered bellowed, “For the Code!”

“Blighters!” cursed Sergeant Tuttle.

Realizing this was her chance, Akantha knew she must get to her feet or she was finished—reinforcements or no reinforcements. She gave a final roll, and there was a slight lip in the ground which she, without a second of hesitation, went over and into the small crater left by the grenade, intending to pull her feet under her as soon as the motion was completed. She rolled down the small, several inch high hill, and then down and down and down in a series of rapid, out of control turns, earth cascading all around her until she landed on her posterior with a thump.

She stared up at the edges of hole in the earth she had fallen into in utter shock. There was no way a single plasma grenade, no matter how powerful, could leave this deep a mark in the earth—not one at least twelve feet deep!

Above her, she could hear the clash of weapons, the whine of blaster bolts, and the shouts of combat. Levering back up to her feet took more than one attempt when her damaged shoulder actuator made its presence felt yet again.

Bending down as low as her damaged leg would allow her, the Hold Mistress uncoiled like a wound up spring, jumping and reaching for the edge of the hole. She didn’t make it two feet off the ground, and instead of the edge of the hole, all her hands did was dig into the earthen sides of the tunnel.

Standing she glared up at the hole. “Come on down here and fight!” she shouted, pointing a raised fist at the enemies she could no longer see.

Then she consciously noted for the first time what her unconscious brain had already seen: she wasn’t in some kind of strange, grenade hole in the ground. She had actually fallen into some kind of underground tunnel!

Chapter Forty-Four: Hidden Motives

“The Monarchy continues to scream like a stuck pig, your Eminence,” Namus Ponce said in an appropriately servile voice. It wouldn’t do to anger the most powerful elected official of the entire Realm, after all!

“Second Citizen, please, Namus,” said his Eminence.

“Of course, Sir,” Ponce acknowledged, bowing low and allowing a full second to pass before correcting himself, “I mean your…Second Citizen.”

His Eminence, the Second Citizen, allowed a small chuckle to escape him. “Let the Monarchy—or rather, its King—squirm, Namus,” His Eminence sounded amused. “It will do our new king a world of good.”

“The fact that it plays well with the voters has nothing to do with it, of course,” Member of Parliament Namus Ponce released a breath a breath he hadn’t even known he’d been holding.

“Of course not!” the Second Citizen decried, looking genuinely shocked as he did so. He was so good at it that, had he not known better, even Namus Ponce would have believed it to be a true emotion. “Although…” his Eminence allowed the word to drag out, “I can’t say as the thought of a public loss of confidence in the Royal Regime would hurt my feelings any. We have been too long stuck inside this bunker, Namus. It’s high time the Elected Officials of Capria were free to return to shepherd their naturally docile voting flock!”

“Still, your Eminence,” Namus protested as evenly as he possibly could, “if it is traced back to us that we deliberately silenced defensive installations which were secretly loyal to us during a pirate attack on the home world…we might have a voter revolt and a reaffirmation of the Royal Usurper himself!”

“Our alibi is airtight, Namus,” the Second Citizen said mildly. “Critical equipment failures, due to Royalist budget cuts are to blame, as well as a fundamental breakdown in the chain of command due to Royalist interference. But even supposing you’re right, the worst that will happen is the King will look like a weak and ineffectual fool who can’t protect his own Palace, and we like a pack of schemers willing to do anything to bring down the oppressive regime of his Majesty, the First Citizen,” his Eminence nodded. “And that’s a comparison I’ll take to the voting ballot box, any day of the election cycle.”

“Yes, but if the intercepted messages from the Palace to the ready reaction Marine Battalion are ever tracked back to us it won’t go over well with the rank and file in the Marine Corps and—” MP Ponce protested.

“Your concerns and willingness to place your name on the orders to delay, as a member of the Parliamentary Armed Services Committee, is noted and appreciated,” the Second Citizen said with a well-practiced smile.

Namus Ponce gulped the hard knot which suddenly formed in his throat. “My name?” he asked faintly, “on the paperwork?”

“Above and beyond the call of duty, Ponce,” the Second Citizen said with a grave nod. “You’ve really outdone yourself this time.”

Parliamentary Member Namus Ponce felt faint. He had just been ever so politely railroaded if anything went wrong, and all because he had been foolish enough to air his concerns in front of his Eminence. He should have known better than to stick his neck out for the voters! Why, the ones under threat of attack by the clearly insane Mistress of a non-entity like Jason Montagne weren’t even in his voting district!

“As you say,” he agreed in a strangled voice, bowing low. There really wasn’t anything to be done but swallow the bitter pill and move past it as gracefully as possible. The Second Citizen, as First Speaker and Magistrate of Parliament’s current Shadow Government, could—and, with little consideration, would—break him with a pair of words. With a weary sigh, he reminded himself that voters bred like lice in a public school, and no matter how many were lost or killed there were always more of them ready to take their place. As of this moment, he no longer had time for any sentimentality or concern over potential mass graves; he had more important matters to attend to. Like the survival of his political career!

He couldn’t help anyone—least of all his constituents—if he was thrown in prison on some sort of trumped up charges. Why, if that happened, his district would be in the hands of some political neophyte who wouldn’t know the first thing about keeping the funding streams for all his pork barrel projects flowing. It would take at least ten years for the district—his district—to recover to Namus Ponce’s established level of prosperity.

He shook his head in silent, sharp negation. It was his civic duty to keep the bailouts, tax carve-outs—and most importantly, the handouts—flowing. At this point there was nothing else he could do. The ball was firmly in the First Speaker’s hands.

“It will be as you say, your Eminence,” he said fervently.

The Second Citizen looked faintly surprised, but the expression quickly flitted off his face in favor of a grave one. “As always,” the First Speaker agreed with a nod.

“Then if you don’t need anything further, I’ll go and continue to monitor the situation,” Ponce offered. On the political scale of things he didn’t rate much higher than a strategically well-placed, cheerful-looking yellow dwarf star while the Speaker was the equivalent of a political supernova that was prepared to consume anything in his path. Namus had no intention of being consumed any sooner than absolutely necessary, and looked to actively avoid such a fate for as long as possible. The first step in that plan required him to get as far out of the First Speaker’s reach as possible.

“No, I think things are fine just as they are, Namus,” the Second Citizen smiled, and the look had more in common with a viper than anything mammalian.

As the Member of Parliament was walking out, the Bunker gave the slightest shudder.

“What was that?” the Second Citizen snapped.

“I’m not sure,” Namus hazarded, his eyes wide.

“What!?” the Second Citizen exclaimed.

“Apologies, your Eminence,” Namus groveled.

The First Speaker looked over at him in surprise and then waved a hand irritably. “No, not you, you fool!” he snapped before once against holding a hand up to his ear.

Ponce flushed, both with the reprimand and from not realizing the Speaker was on the end of an active com-link.

“Oh, they do, do they?” the Second Citizen said in a voice cold enough to form glaciers with its passage. “The slut has gone too far!” he snarled. “It was almost amusing for them to attack the Palace, but to strafe the Bunker from high orbit?! The nerve!”

Realizing hearing even as much as he already had was unhealthy for his career—which was, itself, on rather uneasy ground—Ponce sidled over the rest of the way to the door as surreptitiously as possible.

“Oh, and one more thing, Commandant,” the Second Citizen said and then looked up to spot Ponce. Namus’ heart sank; he should have known better than to even try to flee. The Second Citizen was too savvy to let anything slip him by. “Hold please,” the Speaker said harshly before turning to Namus with silent fury on his face.

The Parliamentary Member gulped, “Yes,” he asked and the hastily added, “your Eminence?”

“Ponce,” the Second Citizen said flatly, “on your way out make sure and stop by at the office of corrections and inform them I need to speak with an Agent of Error as soon as possible. It seems that despite recent and very high-profile setbacks, Operation Rounding Error just had new life breathed into its funding stream.”

“Sir?” Ponce said faintly.

“That slut of a Montagne Mistress has gone too far, and now she has to die for it,” the Second Citizen seethed. “No one orbitally bombards my Bunker and gets away with it!” Then the First Speaker of Parliament and Second Citizen for the entire Caprian people deliberately turned away, now ignoring Ponce as beneath his notice. It was as clear of a dismissal as any the Parliamentary Member had received.

Ponce breathed a sigh of relief that he was still alive and scrambled for the door activator.

“And Commandant, tell those batteries to stop malingering and just blow those pirates out of the Sky! Priorities have just changed,” roared his Eminence right before the door slammed shut behind Namus Ponce as he exited the chamber.

Chapter Forty-Five: Buried Alive?

When there was a strangled cry from outside the entrance to the tunnel cave in, Akantha felt satisfied as the noise had sounded definitively human and almost certainly belonging to another rogue Tuttle. Or, if not rogue, then one who had placed his arm in service of a chancy and untrustworthy leader.

A smile had just started to steal across her face when the whine of a second plasma grenade in almost as many minutes sailed towards her. Before the grenade had even had time to hit the ground, the Hold Mistress had turned.

Scrambling up the tunnel to avoid the blast of flaming plasma, the Hold Mistress was once again picked up and thrown by the force of the explosion, this time down the branch of the tunnel she had just entered. She had little time to see the turn in the tunnel before she slammed face-first into it and everything faded into darkness.

****************************************************

Akantha opened her eyes and gave her head a shake. Instant pain screamed through her neck, and biting back a yelp until she tasted blood on her tongue, she kept from humiliating herself. Even if no one was present to notice her outcry, she would have known—and she was no flower picking, blushing schoolgirl. She was a warrior and a Hold Mistress!

Womanning up and ignoring the pain, she tried to get to her feet but at first all she could do was crawl. After making it a full woman-length, she activated her helmet light and looked back.

Akantha snorted. No wonder she had been unable to walk. In addition to the damage to suit and leg, the tunnel had apparently caved in nearly all the way to where she had been laying with her head on the floor. As it was, there was a hole in the dirt pile about the length of her legs from where the tunnel collapse had covered just about half her body while she had been unconscious.

Obviously, the weak nature of the roof of this tunnel had been limited to the single location that the original plasma grenade had landed.

With her legs free of the dirt, stone, and other assortments of loose earth, the Hold Mistress decided to try a second time to regain her feet.

Standing up proved that her right leg was now wobbly, which was a concern, but her dignity had been reclaimed; she was no longer crawling around on the floor.

Turning back to the cave-in she glared at the loose mound of dirt blocking the way she came in, as well as casting a sharp look at the roof directly above her. For half a moment she considered trying to dig her way out with her bare hands but then she hesitated.

“The last thing I need is another cave in,” the Hold Mistress decided unhappily. She needed to get back in the melee but burying herself under a small mountain of dirt was not going to accomplish that.

“Time to open up a second front in this battle of ours,” Akantha hissed.

She turned resolutely to the only way out of here. She was just going to have to follow this tunnel and see where it led and take her chances like any other warrior cut off from her war-band.

“At least I was not buried alive,” she limped away from the cave-in and then paused. “I suppose I was half-buried, however,” she corrected herself.

Chapter Forty-Six: Unexpected Encounters

“Are you sure we’re going the right way, my King?” the Noble Privy Councilor Adviser from West Sussex asked uneasily.

“Very sure, Sussex,” King James replied irritably.

“Because there was what looked like a door leading back to an exit two turns ago,” the Noble Advisor continued, “at least, according to the limited signage down here.”

“We left the servant tunnels awhile ago, Sussex,” James reproved heatedly, “that exit leads to the surface; the Palace Grounds in specific, which grounds are currently occupied by a hostile force of the genetically engineered. So forgive me if I fail to heed your otherwise doubtless sage advice and casting aside our one safe route out of here, turning around, and delivering myself into the hands of our enemies instead!”

The Noble Advisor from West Sussex flushed a bright crimson red but nodded jerkily and turned away from the confrontation and his ill-considered advice.

James nodded cruelly, some small portion of his anger and frustration with being run out of his own Palace sated by the public humiliation of the Noble Advisor in front of the rest of the Privy Councilors.

“Some of us know better than to question the will of our Sovereign Liege,” Palpatine said pointedly.

James rounded on his squabbling subordinates before they degenerated into a useless pack of name-calling cads, at odds with everything, including themselves.

“Enough,” he shouted, “you will silence yourself, Palpatine, or I’ll have your head when we’re out of this.”

“But my Lord!” protested the Chancellor, appearing taken aback.

“Don’t try to play me for a fool, Chancellor Palpatine, and don’t think for an instant I don’t know who is responsible for my being forced to crawl through these infernal drainage tunnels!”

“Apologies, your Majesty,” the Chancellor muttered.

“Ye world gods and in the fie,” James snarled, turning back and taking long strides down the tunnel, “if they’re not incompetent then they’re actively scheming against me. Was there ever a King so bedeviled by a pack of useless Councilors as I?” he demanded rhetorically.

The sound of shuffling feet and harsh whispers behind him did little to nothing to soothe a King’s fraying nerves, and with a curse James lengthened his stride. The Advisors could keep up with their King or risk becoming stranded underground; let the useless sots try to find the way out on their own.

Something rustled in the darkness ahead and the young King’s blood pressure skyrocketed as he instantly fell into a defensive stance.

“What was that?!” Palpatine asked with alarm in his voice.

James glanced back at him irritably and then placed a hand on his vibro-dagger.

“Possibly a very large rat,” West Sussex said scornfully, clearly looking for any chance to argue with the Chancellor and regain his lost dignity after suggesting they ‘escape’ these tunnels right into the middle of the very ongoing firefight they were trying to avoid.

Palpatine snorted derisively at Sussex’ dismissal.

“It could be,” James said and then stood there for several long seconds. When no further noise came from down the tunnel, he relaxed fractionally, “And most likely it is. Let us continue.”

“As you say, my King,” the Noble Advisor from West Sussex shot a triumphant look over at the Chancellor.

For his part, Palpatine just rolled his eyes and King James shrugged off their bickering as he stepped forward.

Servos whined and something large and bulky shuffle stepped out of the darkness.

“Who goes there?” demanded one of the more bullheaded members of the Privy Councilors—one with more spine than the others. “Stop in the name of the King and declare yourself!”

“Well, well, well, King James,” a clearly female voice said with surprised satisfaction in her voice. “Men truly answers the prayers of the faithful…although it sounds as if Murphy himself must have had a hand in it.”

“Declare yourself!” the Privy Councilor shouted, stepping up beside James and pulling out a blaster pistol—making it clear that he had no intention of aiming it at the King’s back. “You stand in the presence of James Vekna, King of Capria and Sovereign Lord of the entire Star System!”

“I’ve come a long way to speak with your King, minion. Stand aside,” the female’s voice had turned as icy as winter’s breath.

James surreptitiously loosened his vibro-dagger in its sheath and cursed himself for waiting until it was almost too late to take to the servants’ passages. A group of mutant freaks had reached the palace, and instead of keeping the power-armored quad with him for protection, like a fool he had sent them to deal with the intruders. He had kept only the unarmored Palace Guards, in their colorful uniforms, and placed them in the back of their formation in case they were followed. He should have sent the unarmored quad to slow the freakish Uplifts; after all, all they needed to do was slow the talking beasts down, not actually win—or survive!

“State your business or be gone, grunt,” James snapped, unable to put up with this cur any longer. He had a hidden hover-interceptor to catch, and a planet that needed his leadership and comfort!

“My name is Adonia Akantha Zosime, Mistress of the Furious Phoenix, Landbride of Argos, Hold Mistress of Messene…and I have business with you, King of Capria!” the battle-suited woman declared.

Chapter Forty-Seven: Battle, Terms, and Laying Down the Law

Beside him, the Privy Councilor with the pistol opened fire.

For his part, King James scrambled backwards into the relative safety of the rest of his Advisors; he had no illusions that the Advisors would shield or save him. Those that didn’t fall to the ground would prove an inadequate shield against an armored marine. But what they did provide him with was time to get on the other side of them and back where he belonged—where he should have been all along—safely and securely surrounded by his quad of Guardsmen. Then it would be time to turn the odds on the insane woman he had found in the tunnels.

****************************************************

“Oh, no you don’t,” Akantha cursed, as the feckless King melted back into the crowd. Lifting her forearm to block any more attacks to her increasingly battered helmet, the Hold Mistress swore bloody vengeance on anyone or anything that stood in her way. She would not tolerate another delay in reaching and, more importantly, actually laying hands on this King!

A hail of blaster bolts from that little pistol reminded her that before she could do unto King James as he so justly deserved, she needed to do unto his sycophantic hangers on first. At least, she assumed they were sycophants; they looked like nothing more than a gaggle of very aged and self-important courtiers to her eyes.

“My vengeance will not be denied!” Akantha shouted as she lowered her shoulder and charged.

Bolts ricocheted off her armor and then she was among them. Lashing out with the very arm she had been using as an impromptu shield, she smashed the pistol-brandishing Advisor into the stone wall.

Lowering her head, the angry Tracto-an woman made like an enraged stone rhino matriarch, and bulled her way through the clot of bodies blocking her access to the tender flesh of their ruler.

Like one of those matriarchs indigenous to her home world, she tossed men and women aside. Bone crunched and Advisors screamed, but in short order she cleared a path.

She stepped clear of the aged sycophants and saw the leveled barrels of four rifles. “Messe—” her battle cry was cut short as a rapid succession of hammer blows picked her up and threw her back down the corridor, where she landed with deadly force on an Advisor. The pain in her chest where the Palace Guards had hammered her back caused her to grimace, and her knee erupted into searing agony as she got back up.

“Enough with the sonic rifles, blast it,” barked the King. “You might not have blasters on you but I know you have grenades—use them!”

“But, Sire,” protested a Guard hesitantly, “the Advisors!”

“Destroy her. Now!” screamed the King.

Akantha shook her head and, sword in one hand, reached the holster attached to the hips of her power-armor.

“Fools,” the King shouted at the very same moment the Guardsmen started unclipping grenades from their utility belts.

Akantha’s hand fell to the oversized pistol at her side even as clicks sounded and grenades started to whine as the guardsmen drew their arms back to hurl their deadly weapons. Leveling the oversized plasma pistol recovered from the Warlord of the former Deep Fleet Space Army, Akantha pulled the trigger.

Plasma thundered out of the end of her pistol, engulfing two of the tightly-packed guards lining the corridor in front of her. One man screamed, briefly pawing at his face while the other fell over backward, his light body armor having failed to protect him from her deadly attack.

Taken by surprise, one of the Palace Guards dropped his grenade at his very own feet. However, the other man was made of sterner stuff, and his grenade flew with pinpoint accuracy toward the Hold Mistress.

With only a split second to recognize the threat and react, Akantha dropped her pistol. Even though it was in her off-hand, she would never willingly relinquish the sword she bore, and grabbed a portly looking man who was too busy cowering against the corridors to escape her grasp.

“Let me g—” the Advisor shrieked as the grenade landed at her feet, and without hesitating she tossed him on top of the technological fireball.

There was a muffled whump, followed by a much louder one from where the other Palace Guard had dropped his grenade. To Akantha’s semi-horrified gaze, the center of the nearby Advisor was incinerated in a gout of plasma which lashed into the air and from several holes in the man’s side and arms, splashed the area with superheated flesh and rapidly dissipating plasma.

Looking up, she saw the remaining guards—as well as some of the nearer Advisors—had been collectively slaughtered by the errant grenade.

Catching the sight of some smoke rising from her armor, Akantha batted at the casement of duralloy, wiping off charred pieces of flesh. When she looked back up, to finally beard the King now that his guards were all dead, she saw that he was gone.

However, the sound of distant, rapid footsteps echoed back to her position.

“By Men, how cowardly can one man be?!” Akantha cried as a surge of fury soared through her like a whirlwind, and she set off in as rapid a pursuit as a knee that burned and shot icy daggers of pain up and down her leg with every step would allow her. Between the damage to her leg and the damage to her suit’s knee actuator, she was going nowhere near as fast as she would have liked. Pausing only to snatch up the overheated plasma pistol, she was off after her quarry.

While she wanted to sprint, a rapid jog was about the best she could manage and even then she started biting her already bloodied lip again, before the sharp pain from where her teeth had already bit deep stabbed through her brain.

Wavering from side to side and putting it down entirely to the damage her armor had taken, despite a slight tendency for her eyes to wander and start seeing double, the Hold Mistress refused to be put off now that she had seen her target. She would have him!

****************************************************

Breath rasping in his ears, the King of Greater Capria, both the Planet and Star System, ran back the way he had come. He was desperate to find a split in the tunnel that would lead him back to his escape route.

“Blasted woman! Her and her blasted AI freaks; what the blazes are they doing here when Jean Luc and a pair of battleships is heading straight towards her home world?” King James cursed, forgetting for a moment that not everyone had fast courier ships with links across what little remained of known space in Sector 25 of the Spine. She had no business, even as conceived by a crazy person, for attacking him, “Inconceivable!”

He darted down a side turn, only to find yet another access hatch leading up to the Palace Grounds, eliciting a growl from his throat. If his ancestors had been less concerned with secret trysts and hidey holes to escape their courtly enemies and a touch more concerned with a means of escaping their Palaces when under attack, he might not be in this situation!

Then he realized that if his Royal predecessors had been a little more prepared that there would probably still be a Montagne on the Throne, and the Veknas would still be a minor Distaff branch—meaning that he would have never risen to sit his own posterior on the Royal Seat without having assassinated most of the males with a direct claim and marrying a recently widowed Queen, or Princess-Heir. Under such a scenario, even that fool Flat Nose might have sat his keester on the Throne before he did, which was just plain inconceivable!

No, it was better to avoid ‘could be’s’ and ‘might have beens,’ as there was no universe he could imagine in which Flat Nose became King before him.

“Barbarians do not attack Core Worlds,” James snapped the second time he had to back track from a false exit and been forced to retrace his steps.

Hearing the sound of duralloy-shod footsteps with a tell-tale stomp-scrape-stomp of a damaged leg being partially dragged during the step, the King was spurred on to greater heights of cardiovascular achievement and the mere jog of moments ago broke into a flat out run.

If this kept up, he might have to take his chances up on the surface, but he was still holding out for a clean escape and break with the mad woman pursing him. Honestly, what woman in her right mind attacked a Core World like Capria with just one ship—and all because of a man who wasn’t even her husband? She was a simple Mistress, after all!

He shook his head in disbelief. Shouldn’t she be attacking Central if she really was this insane?! Only a crazy person let revenge take the place of cool calculation when their position was on the line. Besides that, did she really believe that whatever penny ante, inbred little principality she came from was really on par with the Provincial Government of Capria?

All of it was inconceivable, and very foreign to his way of thinking.

Seeing a sign claiming to lead to a drainage hatch, and thus logically to the drainage system and his exit, James grinned.

“By the great Annihilator, it’s about time something went my way,” he smiled. “Time to get out of here!”

Running down the side passage, he skidded to a halt with his elation turning to silent, hand-clenching fury at the sight of the very entrance to the storm drainage system he had been seeking—an opening which was unpredictably covered with solid metal bars.

“Blast it all,” he swore, turning back around.

The sound of duralloy shod footsteps approaching down the side passage caused the King’s eyes to widen.

Desperately, he turned back to the drainage grill and pulled out his vibro-dagger. Activating the weapon he attacked the base of the nearest bar, and to his elated surprise the dirty, grit-covered metal bar wasn’t made out of pure duralloy, but rather duralloy-coated bronze!

Hacking and carving for all he was worth, the King crowed as he removed first one bar, and then began working on a second. If he could carve out three of the bars he could make good his escape!

Redoubling his efforts, he knew he didn’t have much time.

“James Vekna, the Caprian King…seeing you scrambling around in the dirt like a gutless rat seeking a bolt hole is a balm,” said the same, infernal female voice that minutes earlier had proclaimed vengeance upon him.

Realizing he would never be able to cut the bars in time, King James stood up and turned to face his would-be nemesis. Straightening his shoulders, he allowed a contemptuous sneer to cross his face.

“You are very brave for someone inside a battle-suit, facing off against an unarmed man, but then that’s about what I’d expect from a primitive so stupid she would accept becoming my cousin’s unwed concubine,” he smirked.

****************************************************

Akantha froze. “You are not unarmed and, as even you can see, I bear a sword,” she said carefully, afraid that if she didn’t restrain her natural impulses she would gut him like a cut-worm. “I am no man’s concubine.”

The little pipsqueak threw back his head and laughed at her. “Keep telling yourself that, sister,” he mocked.

Her hands tightened on the hilt of her Bandersnatch. “We are not brother and sister,” she said sharply, “at best you are a cousin by marriage, but one I repudiate. Be advised that should you ever seek shelter from your enemies in my domain, I shall cast you from my hearth to wander in the wilderness and no woman will have you. You will be left scrounging for acorns and berries with the pigs and animals of the field!”

James blinked and stared at her oddly. “Right back at you,” he said sharply, “but fear not, I’ve more than enough women panting after me that I’ll not be struggling for companionship, come what may.” He paused and then looked at her with equal parts speculation and revulsion, “Although if this is some kind of ham-handed, barbaric attempt to trade up from that poser Jason to a real Prince, and now King, of the Realm I have to say I’m flattered but the answer is no.”

It took several seconds to parse the brown-skinned King’s words, but when she did, Akantha purpled. “You dare suggest I am chasing after you, like some kind of dog in heat?” she burned with rage. “You forget who is whose prisoner, little man!”

“As long as I still have this,” he brandished his vibro-knife, “I am no one’s prisoner. And for someone who claims to be a ‘Sovereign Individual’ in her ransom demands, you would do a lot better by dropping the ‘Mistress’ part. I mean, honestly, claiming to be my Cousin’s kept broad as your highest title isn’t exactly going to be winning you many points for style around here.”

With one furious motion, she lashed out with her Bandersnatch and before he could do more than begin to recoil, the vibro-dagger—and a pair of still-curled fingers—went flying.

James gasped, falling to his knees and clutching his now bleeding hand with a look of shock and utter disbelief on his face. “What have you done?!” he sobbed.

“A kept woman is that what you think of me?” she said with cold fury. “You mock me without recourse to either brains or cunning.”

“You’re insane,” James snapped, tears trailing down his cheeks, “do you know what you’ve done? You’ve attacked and maimed the King’s person!”

“Am I so low that even now you fear me not, worm?!” Akantha snarled. “Or perhaps fingers do not faze you? Perhaps I should cut into something more…dear,” she said, allowing the tip of her sword to rest on his chest and then slowly trail down his stomach.

Still clutching his hand, James jerked and instinctively covered his most precious bits. “Get away from me,” he shrieked, falling over backward, “what do you want, woman? Whatever it is, it’s yours. Just set me free and no one needs to know what you’ve done!”

A slow, vicious smile spread across her face.

“Finally,” she said with satisfaction, “even a treacherous fool of a man begins to see reason.”

“Money, jewels, women…” he brought himself up short, actually looking embarrassed as he visibly fought against the pain of his ruined hand, “er, whatever it is, just take it and go.”

“I have what I have come for,” Akantha said, reaching down to grab him by the collar and thumping him on the back in the process, “and that is all that I require.”

“What?!” James blurted in shock. “B-but what do you want with me?”

“Come along, you,” Akantha said, roughly shoving him forward.

“What have I ever done to you?” he cried, gasping and clutching his hand when it brushed up against her armor.

“You are a man—act like it,” Akantha said, brutally unsympathetic to his plight. “And as for what you have done, it was you who sent your people to betray and murder ours.”

“That wasn’t me; it was Parliament and that Montagne Jean Luc,” James protested. “Look, I’m sure we can work something out.”

“Cease your lies and admit the truth, you motherless cur,” she rounded on him with a snarl, “cease them, I say, or I will cut out your tongue and to Men with the consequences!”

James raised his hands defensively and flinched away. Akantha’s grip loosened in surprise at such unmanly behavior, and in that instant a cunning look flashed across his face and he broke free, his collar tearing as he bolted for the hall.

Calmly, Akantha pulled the plasma pistol out of its holster and took careful aim. Deliberately aiming low, she fired just before he cleared the corner.

The screams when the plasma gun blew off his leg below the knee were music to her ears. She knew from experience that much of the bleeding would be staunched by the weapon’s cauterizing flame, and that he was unlikely to die any time soon as a result.

Shuffle-stomping over as fast as she could manage with her burning knee, she pulled out an emergency tourniquet. It resembled nothing so much as a small cord of plastic wire, or rope, which she fastened over the stump of his leg and pulled tight.

After injecting a vial of combat heal directly into the steaming stump of his leg, the Hold Mistress threw him over her shoulder.

Now all she needed to do was find an access door to the surface and return to orbit.

She smirked at her easy assumption of success, but there was nothing to be done for it except succeed—for her, failure was not an option.

As she shuffle-stepped her way out of the secret, underground passageways, bits of ash and blood fell unnoticed from his bleeding, burnt, and destroyed lower leg, leaving a trail of red droplets in her wake.

Chapter Forty-Eight: Gathering up the Pieces

Traian came running over.

“We just saw the post on the Home and Garden blog page, Lieutenant,” he said excitedly, “the target has been secured; it’s time to extract.”

“Is the Admiral’s Lady still missing?” Lieutenant Grogan asked flatly.

“The tagline indicated the orders came from the Lady,” Tray said with a grin.

“Blessed be, they must have found her,” the Lieutenant sighed. “Very well, pull the search teams out of the bush around the perimeter and let’s wrap it up here,” he said, waving a finger around his head for emphasis, “it’s time to saddle up and get out of town.”

“Yes, Sir,” Traian said with an easy smile.

Grogan’s brows lowered thunderously and Traian’s features quickly blanked. With a satisfied nod, the Lieutenant gestured back the way the Lancer had come. “Dismissed,” he said clearly.

“Yes, Sir!” Traian snapped, bracing to attention but not saluting, as there were still major combat operations taking place nearby.

Taking a deep breath, the Lieutenant steeled himself before striding over to the hover-van parked nearby. Motioning for Vali to follow him, he stepped up to the side door and gave a quick, triple knock.

The door swung open and the faintly disapproving face of the Admiral’s Mother stared down at him, while behind her, her daughter, the Admiral’s Sister’s eyes shot daggers his way.

“Yes, Lieutenant,” the Mother, Elaina Three feathers said simply, “is it finally time to leave?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he nodded to her and then glanced over to her daughter, and adding a second, “Ma’am,” with a dip of the head.

“Good,” rumbled a well-muscled individual with the build of a top shelf athlete, even though he was a little too old to be competitive. “If we’d waited very much longer I would have been concerned. I don’t care how good your exfiltration plan is; the airwaves are screaming about an attack on the Palace and we’re the next best thing to ground zero.”

“Now, Duncan, I’m sure the good Lieutenant here is doing his best,” Elaina said, but despite her kind words, Grogan had to fight the urge to squirm under the cool look she gave him.

The man rumbled discontentedly but didn’t actually articulate anything before settling back in his chair.

“Will we need to exit the van?” Elaina asked calmly.

“No, Ma’am,” Grogan said, with a feeling or intense relief at finally being able to say something in the positive, “we’re going to need that van or something like her for the next little while. So strap in and be ready; things are about to move fast.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Elaina said with an almost regal nod, right before Duncan reached over and slammed the door shut in his face.

“A ‘friend of the family,’ my backside,” Vali said in a lower voice, “if that man’s not ex-military or special forces of some kind then I’m from Cluj.”

Grogan looked over at him sharply.

“You’re from Prometheus—and more importantly, you’re from the Confederation,” he snapped. “I’ve had just about enough of you and Traian’s little intra-provincial squabbling.”

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” Vali said stiffly.

“Get your gear and carry on, Lancer,” Grogan said shortly.

Vali braced to attention and beat a hasty retreat.

Overhead, a powerful laser lanced into the sky from a battery which, up until this point, had been mysteriously silent.

“Things just keep getting better and better,” Lieutenant Grogan groaned before reaching up and activating his civilian ear bud. “All right, no more time for lollygagging. It’ time to saddle up!” he said over the com-link before deactivating it. “And let’s hope those Fleet boys know what they’re about up there,” he half-muttered, half-prayed.

Chapter Forty-Nine: Cause for Alarm

Glue sat on his oversized Command chair, eyes burning from the lack of sleep and constant action. “New orders to Ship Grouping: turn fifteen degrees right, down bubble five,” he ordered and then watched as the corvettes in his ship grouping changed course. “Ship Weaponry to high alert.”

A certain, heavily-scarred female casually wandered over and then disappeared around behind him. Seconds later a pair of small, female hands began kneading his neck in a smooth, soothing motion, only temporarily broken when she stopped to groom a bit of something out of his fur.

“We’re going after a light cruiser now?” Duba asked in a low, quiet voice.

Glue rumbled deep in his chest affirmatively, and allowed two long moments to pass before he heaved a sigh. “Public grooming, Duba?” he finally grunted. “If you are not careful, the other Bridge Groups will get jealous.”

Duba snorted harshly, “They all know you are mine.”

Glue started and she laughed as she stopped the grooming massage—although she still left her hands in place.

On the main screen, every Caprian ship moved with a clear ripple effect, starting with those warships closest to their home world adjusting their courses, moving as if they were no longer concerned about stern shots as they jetted towards Capria at top speed.

Duba chuffed in irritation and removed her hands.

“What are the words from Communication Group; why are the base stock ships no longer guarding against us?” Glue asked, leaning forward ponderously.

“There was a broad spectrum communication but the message was encrypted,” a Communications Group member said deferentially. “We can crack it but probably not before we leave the system.”

“Useless to us,” Glue agreed. “Scan the news feeds.”

The Sundered hesitated before bobbing her head and turning back to her console. “The attack on the Palace is in process, Primarch,” the Comm. member reported. “It’s all over the news links and there is speculation about the safety of the King, with broad displays of both anger and fear over how this could happen. But all the information we have gathered suggests that the SDF owes its primary loyalty to the new King.”

“Hmm,” Glue mused, pursing his lips.

“Apparently, many SDF ships were lost due to anti-mutiny devices when the King reclaimed power,” she continued, “so now, in addition to blaming the King for failing to protect the planet, the news outlets are blaming Parliament for refusing to hand over the codes to the now-destroyed ships.”

“Enough,” Glue said heavily, his eyes sweeping over the damage reports from his other ships as an expectant silence filled the bridge. “Break off our attack run,” he said finally, disappointment with the necessity of making the decision.

“But we can still strike the enemy and damage the engines of the cruiser,” Duba pointed out, a hint of challenge in her voice.

Glue slapped his hands together in negation. “No,” he said placidly, “our job is not to destroy Capria’s SDF; our job is to delay the return of their ships to the home world.”

“Which we can still do,” Duba disagreed.

“Great risk, little reward,” Glue replied. “Things change, and so must the Sundered. For now we will follow and wait for stumbles. No more,” he said with finality.

Chapter Fifty: Aggressive Maneuvers

After making sure James Vekna was securely fastened in his seat, Akantha stepped into the shuttle cockpit. “How soon do we launch?” she demanded.

“The advance team is just taking the other high value targets to another shuttle; we’ll launch all together after they’re onboard,” the pilot informed her.

Akantha stared at him, her brow furrowed, then she shook her head. “Tell them to bring Jason’s mother to this shuttle,” she instructed.

“But my lady, if something goes wrong,” the pilot protested.

“Do as you are told,” she commanded him.

The pilot looked upset but got on the com-link and relayed her instructions.

Not half a minute later the cargo bay loading ramp lowered and a group of unarmored figures—including a pair of females—scrambled on board.

There was no time for small talk or idle chatter as everyone was directed to the nearest seat and told to strap in.

“Hold on, this is going to be rough,” said the pilot. Seconds later the shuttle kicked like a stone rhino and the Hold Mistress ‘oophed’ as she was violently thrust back in her chair.

Beside her, the leader of the House of Vekna moaned. “Don’t kill me,” he whimpered.

“I will not kill you,” Akantha mocked and then paused in consideration as a grim smile spread across her face, “at least, not yet.”

James’s head rolled to the side, and under the force of incredible thrust he didn’t seem able to muster a more controlled movement as his eyes were filled with patent disbelief.

“You’ll never get away with this,” he finally said.

Akantha raised her brows.

“The Caprian People will not sit still for this, to say nothing of the SDF. They’ll tear you apart! There’s nowhere you can hide,” he gasped, straightening in his seat and giving her what he probably hoped was a hard look. But his expression was ruined by a grimace of pain as the shuttle jerked into a hard turn and then rocked from side to side.

Akantha waited until the violent movements were complete and then sniffed loudly.

“Don’t you understand? There’s nowhere you can hide,” James spat, “they will come for me!”

“I think you overestimate the strength of your opposition, kingling,” the Hold Mistress replied, her voice objective and matter-of-fact as she considered the situation. “No one will come for you, and if they do there is a good chance you would mysteriously die in transit. I would almost certainly be blamed, but there you have it. The moment you leave this system and direct contact with your own people, I am willing to bet you are as good as a dead man walking in the Caprian Polis.”

King James blinked. “You’ll never make it out of this system!” he snapped, appearing unfazed by her assertions of his impending death. “I have…that is to say, ‘we’ have, as in the Caprian SDF, more than enough light warships to run you down, slag your engines, and pummel you to kingdom come with our larger units.”

There was an alert sound and Akantha’s data slate started flashing. Irritation flashed across her face before she could suppress it, and with a scowl for both James Vekna and the pilot on the other end of the slate, she activated the two way function.

“Yes?” she said angrily.

“We just lost two of our extraction shuttles to ground fire,” the pilot said grimly. “Planetary batteries got them,” he explained further, “and an orbital fort will soon be in range. It’s going to be tight.”

“Understood,” Akantha said firmly.

She turned to see James looking at her with a cocky expression on his face.

“I am glad to see this amuses you,” she smiled sweetly, the unaccustomed movement of her facial muscles pulling on the twin lines of scar tissue trailing down her face a sharp reminder of why she was here.

For some reason, this seemed to cause the young kingling to pull back alarm skittering across his face before being replaced with a slightly amused expression.

“As for exiting this little mole hill in the River of Stars, why don’t you leave such concerns to me?” the Hold Mistress said returning to their earlier topic of conversation.

James snorted loudly and the Hold Mistress’s face hardened, her façade melting away as if it had never been.

“If I were you,” she said evenly, “I would be much more worried about making it into orbit…alive.”

“My people would never shoot down their King,” James blustered.

Akantha gave him a flat look. “We just lost two shuttles and I promise you, we have in no way instructed your forces as to which of our shuttles you are on,” she adjusted her position in her chair. “So either they do not believe you are on one of our shuttles, or they are, in fact, very much trying to ‘shoot down their King’.”

Alarm crossed the young King’s face and then it hardened. “So now you expect me to assist you in my own kidnapping, is that it?” he growled.

“I am not concerned with such things in the slightest,” Akantha said letting her own bleak determination show and match him stare for stare.

“That’s crazy talk, lady,” James said disgustedly, “and I’m not falling for it. If you set down now, I swear you’ll be given a fair trial and the option of execution will be taken off the table for anyone who surrenders—including you.”

“Give me vengeance or give me death,” she said with a shrug before turning away. “If the latter, I will go knowing that you go with me.”

James crossed his arms and shook his head in negation.

Half a minute passed and the shuttle pilot threw the craft into a series of high speed turns, right before something exploded against the side of the shuttle. Fortunately, nothing looked or sounded like it had penetrated.

“Ground to air, shoulder-mounted missiles!” James exclaimed, holding tight to his seat.

Akantha glanced at him but refused to let show her lack of knowledge regarding whatever had struck them.

“I can’t believe this. You actually expect me to help you in your escape,” the young King declared, rounding on her with a snarl on his face.

Akantha bared her teeth.

“Give me that slate,” he demanded, but the Hold Mistress turned away. “Now, woman! I need to input the King’s personal IFF; they shoot us down and we are all killed,” he yelled.

After a split second of consideration, she handed him the tablet. King James activated the keyboard function and rapidly tapped away on the screen.

“Here, give that to your pilot. And by the Lady of Beauty, have the shuttle’s beacon start flashing it,” he said urgently.

Akantha fumbled on the slate for a moment before James reached over and tapped a button initiating the transfer to the pilot.

The Hold Mistress glared at him and he quickly moved as far away as his seat restraints would allow him.

“Our Guest says this should keep them from shooting at us,” Akantha told the Pilot.

There was dead air for a pair of seconds and then the Pilot replied, “It can’t be worse than being shot out of the air, for certain. I’m transmitting to the rest of the shuttle fleet.”

Beside her, James lifted his stump of a leg and yelped. “Look what you’ve done, you murderous, maiming, barbarian, primitive, uplift-loving…” he sputtered to stop.

“Be thankful I have not done more,” Akantha said with unconcern.

“I’ll have your head for this!” James snarled.

“Be cautious, kingling,” she said abruptly, “or I might take it into my head that I am in dire need of yet another pound of flesh.”

James’ eyes burned with fury. “Do what you have to, but you’ll never make it out of this Star System alive. It’s inconceivable,” he promised.

“The wages of treachery and betrayal,” she said witheringly, “are a small mind and missing body parts. Keep talking and we shall have to continue our conversation on a data-slate…because I will take your tongue.”

After that there was merciful silence, until after they survived to break orbit and then boarded the Furious Phoenix.

“It looks like you are more well-loved by your people—or at least your warriors—than I thought possible,” Akantha said with an enigmatic smile.

“Space witch,” James muttered under his breath.

She would have turned to upbraid him and perhaps make good on her earlier threat but there was no time, and she needed to get back on the Bridge.

Chapter Fifty-One: A King in Peril

“Inform me,” Akantha demanded, striding onto a bridge which was bustling with activity.

Gants looked up with visible relief on his face. “You made it, Lady Akantha,” he said almost joyfully.

The Hold Mistress allowed her irritation to show. “You have known that for some time now,” she said shortly. “What goes here?” she asked pointing to the screen. “I see we have reduced one of the orbital forts to ash and damaged two more, but the fourth has received little to no damage?”

“We had to focus on ground targets, and when we did they got some shots in,” Gants explained. “After that we’ve been careful to keep our distance—sling-shotting around the moon and stuff. We’ve only come back into orbit since receiving your signal—oh, and the gorill—ah, the Sundered, attacked the outer defenses fleet for a while but seemed to have stopped. They’re just following now.”

“I hear,” Akantha said, her eyes darting around the main screen as she tried to take in the big picture after being cut off from the flow of information while down on the ground. Silently, she pursed her lips as she worked to take in all the data.

“Did you do it, my lady?” Gants asked, breaking her focus, “did you really take the new King prisoner?”

“Yes,” she said, whirling around and starting for the door, “someone have the King and a medical team sent to the conference room. And prepare the Phoenix to break orbit as vengeance is ours; there is no reason to stay longer.”

“Uh, Lady Akantha?” Gants asked in a hesitant voice.

Akantha turned with a scowl. “What?” she asked flatly.

“Well, umm,” he crisscrossed his legs like a child as he shifted position nervously, “what are about the battleship?”

The Hold Mistress froze. In all of the flurry, somewhere between here, the ground, and back the Parliamentary Power had completely escaped her mind.

“Do you want us to take the prize crew off or do you intend the Power should break away and join us?” Gants pressed.

“What is the status of Captain Darius and his men?” she asked, moving beside her First Officer.

“They still hold the ship,” Gants hastened to assure her, “the Marines sent up a quad of assault shuttles but between us and the prize crew we managed to pick off several of them. One shuttle boarded, but Captain Atticus and his men arrived shortly after. There was…is significant internal damage but the critical systems are both in our hands and functional.”

“You are to relay my compliments to Captain Darius and tell him that his service today has been in the best tradition of our people,” Akantha said with a slow nod at the icon on the screen.

“Lady Akantha, she’s ready to go with us—the Power, that is,” the First Officer said shaking his head as if to belie his words. “However, it’s doubtful if we can escape—” Gants colored, “I mean reach the hyper limit without being engaged. There’s no doubt in my mind the Parliamentary Power will be caught and boarded long before we are if they try to come with us. It seems a waste but…”

“Tell Darius to bring the ship around,” Akantha said decisively, “I want that battleship brought in close to us so that if we need to, his men—and, in fact, all of our surviving Lancers—can transfer back over at need.”

“’If,’ my lady?” he asked, sounding surprised but giving her a hopeful look.

“They should be in the conference room any time now,” Akantha said, ignoring both the question and the look, “so I must away. Coordinate both this ship and the captured citadel while I am occupied, and send a message to the Sundered under Glue: they are to break off and move to rejoin us. They should do so whilst in system if possible, and after we leave the hyper limit if necessary.”

“Yes, Lady,” Gants acknowledged.

“Is there anything else?” she asked impatiently.

Gants looked uncomfortable and Akantha gave him a ‘get on with it’ look. “I’m not even sure if I should bring it up, my lady,” he mumbled.

“Be quick then,” she said, the pain in her leg threatening to shatter what little remained of her patience.

“When Captain Darius first took the ship he encountered a ‘spirited’ resistance,” he mumbled.

Akantha glared at him. “But he was ultimately successful?”

“The reports are confused and I only mention it because the defenders seem to have been led by an Engineering officer,” he explained, and Akantha gave him a dire look as he finished, “that Engineer’s last name was ‘Spalding’.”

Akantha jerked with surprise and stared at her First Officer with ever-widening eyes. “What?” she asked with disbelief. It was the sort of open disbelief that a Hold Mistress ought to never show in front of others but in this case she simply could not help herself.

“A ‘Terrance Tiberius Spalding’,” Gants said, looking down at his data slate, “it seems he’s the reason they got those fusion generators working so quickly, and when Darius entered Main Engineering he reversed the gravity plates. Several of our Lancers who went in with the Captain to secure Engineering…they didn’t make it my lady.”

“I am stunned,” Akantha said quietly after a moment’s silence, “I am completely taken aback. He never mentioned a son.”

Gants leaned forward his voice lowered, “The Chief mentioned a son who, and I quote, ‘Went Parliament’,” he confided, sounding more than a little concerned, “he said the boy was dead to him, but somehow I don’t think he’d take it too kindly if anything happened to the…lad,” he said that last word in a decent imitation of the larger-than-life Chief Engineer’s accent.

Her pain momentarily forgotten, Akantha’s mind raced at the news of another wizard’s appearance—and one directly related to the great Lieutenant Spalding! If at all possible, she must have him and if that could not be for whatever reason, she must devise a way to deny his services to Capria and her King. She could not allow a wizard of such proven pedigree to fall back into enemy hands…but she needed to do it in a way so as not to offend her own favored Chief Engineer, as the Starborn called him. If at all possible, hers should be the only miracle workers, lest too much advantage be given to those who already had so much more than her people.

“Thank you for your report,” Akantha said steadily, “you did well to bring this to my attention.” Then she remembered a phrase her Jason liked to use at times like these, “Carry on,” she said in her best imitation of his demeanor.

Gants nodded, and stepping back, braced to attention.

“That will be all,” Akantha repeated herself, still in a touch of a haze as her pain-addled mind grappled with what she had just learned.

She had just started to turn towards the blast doors for the second time when everyone on the bridge not actively engaged in operating the ship stood up and braced to attention.

The Hold Mistress stopped, recognizing an impromptu Starborn ceremony of some kind was taking place and though duty called, knew she needed to linger a while more.

Then, almost as one, the bridge crew saluted her.

Akantha gave them the nod of a Hold Mistress receiving her due. Through force of will, she turned her mindset back to how it had been before receiving the startling news of a new wizard in their midst.

“Well done,” she said simply.

The bridge crew dropped the salute as expressions of happiness broke out across their faces.

“We’ve beat them once, Lady. We can do it again!” cried someone on the other side of the bridge.

The faintest hint of a smile was on her face as she finally found it right to do what she had been wanting for some time now.

She nodded, and then lengthening her stride, she strode out the blast doors.

****************************************************

“What am I doing here? I should be in a medical unit,” were the first words out of the mouth of the insufferable King James the moment the door to the conference room opened.

Her face hardened and she deliberately relaxed her expression, forcing a lighter tone that what she was feeling. “Does something pain you badly enough that you would have trouble focusing on my words?” Akantha asked solicitously. And then, her voice tightening continued, “Because if so, I will gladly cut it off, thereby removing it from consideration.”

The young King blinked, which was the entirety of his reaction to the deadly threat.

“Why am I here?” he demanded without skipping a beat.

Akantha quirked a smile, as for the first time she started to see a hint—the barest glimmer—of her Jason in the man before her. The flights of pique and petty flashes of emotion were more severe and less appropriate, but now became more familiar as she saw the sudden pivot to seriousness and attempted negotiation.

“You are not nearly as good as my Protector,” she mused her judgment flying from her mouth before she even realized she was saying it.

“As you say,” James said, still entirely focused on her.

Akantha refocused from the faint memory of her Jason and her gaze hardened on the man who she blamed above all others, even Jean Luc for their losses and near defeat at the Omicron.

“You are still here because it pleases me, and for no other reason,” she said sharply, her fingers rising up beyond her conscious control to lightly trace the scars on her cheek, “and you would be wise to remember it.”

“Perhaps I should have asked instead: ‘what do you want’?” James said after a moment.

“I have neither the time nor inclination to pamper your fragile, male ego and need for posturing, so let me be blunt,” Akantha said, her eyes like flint.

“Please do,” James nodded and murmured encouragingly, his eyes locked on hers.

“We have a saying among the rulers of my people, which I am about to share with you,” Akantha said taking a deep breath and taking all the anger, rage and hatred she felt toward the universe at large, and this man in particular. She used all her training as a daughter of House Zosime and shoved all of that into a tiny, mental box, “For the benefit of both our peoples, it is time for us to sit down and talk like women.”

Chapter Fifty-Two: Sweeping the Board

“Talk like women?” James coughed, getting a strange look in his eye that Akantha could not quite decipher but he quickly shook it off. “Right…okay,” he allowed.

Akantha made a triangle with her hands, but the so-called King failed to reciprocate the gesture. Staring at the man through the hole in her hands, she reminded herself that the customs of Argos and Tracto were not the customs of the Starborn.

“Where should we start?” James asked after the silence had been allowed to grow uncomfortably long.

Akantha smiled, and for some reason the look on her face caused the King to jerk back as if he were in peril for his life. “I am glad you asked,” she said with a savage satisfaction. “Your people attacked us and many of mine died, so we have made war on you and many of yours died. You took a battleship by treachery and we took one from you with stealth,” her eyes and voice hardened, “your people attacked a Hold Mistress and captured her Protector, so we have responded in kind by taking their King.”

“You think that this equates?” James asked neutrally.

Akantha cocked an eyebrow. “You do not?” she asked with more than a note of challenge in her voice.

The question quietly posed seemed to rock the young King back on his heels. The wheels behind his eyes turning as he obviously considered his reply.

For her part, Akantha leaned back and regarded the space between her fingers.

“It seems we have finally reached common ground,” James said with a false smile. His words were unconvincing to her ears but she had the measure of this man now.

He was a false and temperamental man with little—but not none—of the steel she would have expected to find as a matter of course amongst her own people.

“What terms do you propose?” he asked neutrally.

“In your language, I believe you call it a ‘treaty’,” Akantha replied.

“A treaty?” James eyes narrowed in calculation. “What kind of treaty are we talking about?” he asked, rubbing his chin. “And of course you realize that anything I sign under duress is unlikely to be…”again, he flashed the false smile, “you just let me worry about it—assuming we can reach something we can both agree on.”

“It’s really quite simple,” Akantha assured him, wishing at that moment for nothing more than that they had never captured the Battleship. Then she would be free to keep James Vekna as her prisoner and throw him into the darkest dankest dungeon in her mother polis of Argos!

Calling in a clerk, she dictated the terms of the treaty as she envisioned it in as clear and concise a language as she could manage.

After she was done speaking, James Vekna stared at her in disbelief. “So basically all you want is the battleship, Parliamentary Power—which you’ve already captured—the mutual recognition of Tracto as an Independent Sovereign Star System,” he said incredulously, “and in return you’ll let me go?”

“I also want a truce that allows us to leave this star system unmolested,” Akantha added, “as I have no intention of fighting my way clear before letting you go. If I must battle my way to the hyper limit then you are coming with me.”

James swallowed and looked slightly pale at this notion but he rallied. “Parliament would never agree to such terms, even as…reasonable as they are. They still wouldn’t sit still for this,” James said.

“It is a good thing I am not talking with Parliament, then, for I believe I was speaking with the Sovereign King of Capria,” Akantha said coolly, her thoughts turning inward. “But if I ever have cause to return to your world, you can rest assured they will not be overlooked.”

“I understand your point,” James said diplomatically, “but this will still be quite a sales job back home. I mean…to convince them that you’re the leader of a Sovereign Star Nation and not a just another Rim pirate. You do understand that Caprians don’t negotiate with terrorists, right?”

“Either you rule this Hold or you do not,” Akantha said severely. “If you are telling me you cannot lead your people…” she trailed off menacingly.

“No, no, of course not,” the King said quickly, “nothing of the sort; the SDF is solidly behind me and the people love me. It’s just…” his eyes snagged on her sword and a light went off, “perhaps if I had something to sweeten the pot?” He leaned forward eagerly and pointed to Bandersnatch, “That is an ancient heirloom of my family, with immense cultural significance. The political power it would bestow on a sitting Caprian King if it was returned—”

Akantha’s muscles locked rigidly and the King cut himself off in alarm.

“This,” Akantha said with glacial precision, “was given for me to Bear, and it is my sword. To ask a woman to hand over a sword you have not placed directly into her hands yourself is one of the gravest offenses known to my people. Wars have been started for less, and I advise you to never speak of this again.”

“I didn’t,” James gaped like a fish and leaned back in his chair, turning pale.

“There is one other thing,” Akantha said, her inner fires burning at having received yet another in a long series of insults from this King, so-called, of Capria.

“Another?” James looked alarmed at the possibility of yet more demands.

“Yes,” she said unyieldingly.

“Go ahead,” James sighed, “but I have to warn you I have no great sway over the decisions of Central and the Sector Government. There’s really nothing I can do at this point.”

Akantha looked at him blankly. “Why would they be important?” she asked suspiciously, leaning forward in her chair.

James looked alarmed. “No reason,” he said hastily, “no reason at all.” He suddenly looked like he had just received inspiration from Men, “It’s only that I know you’ve had some run-ins with a certain Admiral of theirs,” he babbled, “a ‘Yagar’ if I’m not mistaken, and—”

“We need no assistance dealing with such fools,” Akantha sneered, leaning back. “His head will be mounted on our walls in due time. No,” she said sharply, “it is your head that concerns us at this moment.”’

Now that they were off the subject of Central, strangely the young King seemed to settle down with her latest threat rolling right off him as he levelly met her stare.

“A ship stolen for a ship redeemed,” Akantha said, the muscles of her hand tightening, “and an insult against our person exchanged for an insult against yours.” She deliberately looked at his now bandaged hand and scorched leg stump.

The King reddened with angry emotion as she continued, “But the number of your warriors killed is only a fraction of ours,” she slowly clenched her hands, her fists breaking the triangle gesture.

James cocked a single eyebrow in that infuriating way she had always associated solely with her Jason. The look, and thoughts it evoked, caused her heart to clench and bile to rise at the thought of ‘dealing’ with this man—a man she really only wanted to run her blade through and slaughter like a field beast.

“I want the prisoners we’ve taken on the Power,” she said roughly, “and I want them released from their oaths to you and your world and free to serve how and when they choose.”

“What?” James first looked nonplused and then alarmed, “Most of those yard-dogs were Parliamentary sympathizers. I’m not sure they would consider themselves bound by whatever I said or told them to do, especially if it meant renouncing their oaths of service.”

“Just make it legal and any of them that choose to return to Capria will be allowed, eventually,” Akantha said, her lips curving up. “Confederation or Tracto-an service should be an option. In fact…why don’t you just forward them to the Confederation Fleet, and any of them who object can be returned to you?”

“You just attacked their ship,” James protested, “surely you don’t imagine that—”

“I image many things,” Akantha snarled lunging over the table and shoving her face in his, “you would be wise to remember that most of what I imagine eventually comes to pass,” she said, grabbing him by his collar and dragging him towards her. He was partially out of his seat before she released him, and he quickly fell back in his seat with a thump.

“Do not think to be familiar with me,” she said with quiet rage, “it is thanks to you that I have lost more than a man like you could ever appreciate. Do not taunt me, do not mock me, and above all be grateful I do not gut you right here and carry your head around as a trophy.”

James opened his mouth and gagged. He swallowed and cleared his throat.

“If my terms seem excessive to you, simply say so and we shall move on,” she said with burning eyes, “but either you are King and can release the oaths of your people, or you are a false sovereign and of little use to me.”

“I will be released before the hyper-limit?” the King rubbed his throat.

Akantha raised a single finger. “You may have one warship of your choice come to the edge of our turbo-laser range and send a shuttle over. When it is time, you and the shuttle will be given leave to go,” she replied.

“And our truce lasts only as long as you’re in this system?” he clarified.

Akantha nodded languidly.

“Then I’m in, Mistress,” he said, using her title and turning into a curse, “it is struck.”

“Then it is done,”’ she agreed.

“The only problem I can see right now,” James said, “is that, in my haste, I seem to have left behind my seal.”

“Among my people a thumb print in your own blood underneath a signature is sufficient for such times,” she smiled.

“Well, what’s the worry?” James sneered. “You seem to have spilt enough of that already. What’s a few drops more of the Blood Royal?”

Interlude: Exiting Stage Left

Hours later, a shuttle departed from the hold of the Imperial-style Strike Cruiser, Furious Phoenix, on a rendezvous course with a Heavy Cruiser that had been trailing along behind the modified vessel.

Inside the shuttle was a man, short two fingers and the lower part of one leg, who immediately ordered the Heavy Cruiser to attack the vessel of his former captors as soon as he was safely aboard.

The order was relayed as soon as the shuttle docked and shortly after that the entire pursuit fleet went to full burn.

However, they were too little, too late. The slower units did not arrive until after the pair of rogue vessels had passed the hyper limit, and the smaller ships hesitated about entering the weapon arc of both a Strike Cruiser, a Battleship, and three corvettes with their gunboat flotilla. The smaller ships made a wide pass out in front of the Furious Phoenix, just outside of weapons range and then broke off.

Before the appropriate orders for a suicide attack could be issued, the pirate vessels point transferred.

Unbeknownst to the Phoenix and the rest of her squadron, the smaller warship’s hadn’t simply turned away from cowardice; they’d carefully seeded stealthed limpet mines along as much of the Strike Cruiser’s path as they could reach in their high speed maneuver across the bow.

Seconds after point transferring into a set of random coordinates in the vast rift between the stars, a pair of limpet mines exploded. Fracturing the Medium Cruiser’s main dish and, at least temporarily, stranding them in the emptiness of cold space.

Left behind them was a King pounding the arms of the Heavy Cruiser’s Command Chair with frustration, on the edge of the Caprian Star System.

Epilogue: Startling Revelations

The door slid open and a man she supposed was handsome, albeit short and brown-skinned, wearing a Caprian Engineer’s SDF Officer’s uniform, stepped up to her desk.

Looking straight ahead, he came to attention before her desk, his eyes focused on the wall behind her head.

“Greetings, Lieutenant. I am sorry I could not get to you earlier, as we have much to discuss,” the Hold Mistress said, her eyes assessing as they swept the Officer from head to toe, looking for the slightest defect.

“Terrance Tiberius Spalding, Ma’am,” the Officer said crisply, “Lieutenant, Caprian SDF, service number ENLT-P79543.” He stared straight ahead at the wall behind her the entire time.

“My Engineers tell me our main dish has been damaged,” Akantha said.

“Terrance Tiberius Spalding, Lieutenant, Caprian SDF, service number ENLT-P79543, Ma’am,” the Caprian Engineering Officer repeated.

“I am in need of good Engineers to help repair this damage,” the Hold Mistress continued without skipping a beat.

The young Spalding’s eyes flickered toward her briefly. Then his lip curled and he once again stared at the wall behind her, refusing to meet her eyes. “Lieutenant Terrance Tiberius Spalding of the Caprian SDF, service number ENLT-P79543,” he said firmly.

“So,” Akantha said in a regular voice, as if he was not in fact being just as irritating as any wayward goat skittering out of range of the shepherd’s crook, “you will not even condescend to look at or speak with me, is that it?”

The Officer hesitated and then frowned and then her gaze hardened and he looked down at her. “All that I am required to do is to give my name, rank and service number,” the young Engineering Officer, she was told preferred to be called ‘Tiberius,’ said stiffly. “I refuse to give aid or comfort to the enemy. I’m afraid that’s all you’re going to get from me…pirate,” he paused deliberately before spitting out that one last final word.

“I appreciate your candor,” Akantha said, “but you are wrong in one way: I am not a bandit of any kind, neither of the road nor the River of Stars.”

Tiberius’ lip curled. “You mean to tell me you have never taken a slave or captured Caprian warships?” he sneered.

“I was not aware that ‘pirates’ around here were generally brave enough to attack superior ships and forces with the intent to capture,” Akantha said coldly, skittering around the slave remark in favor of a line of argument she could actually rebuff, “such has not been my experience during our pirate hunts.”

The young, hot-headed Spalding paused, his mouth halfway open.

“But then, you already knew we are not pirates,” Akantha continued, leaning forward in the chair.

“Ha!” the young Spalding, this Tiberius, snorted derisively.

“This ship is manned and womanned by Confederation and Tracto-an forces,” she continued in a hard voice, “and it was your nation’s cowardly, backstabbing attacks that earned our retribution, not a desire for piracy.”

“Lies,” Tiberius snapped, “Terrance Tiberius Spalding, Lieutenant, Caprian SDF, service number ENLT-P79543,” he repeated, his eyes glazing over as he returned to staring at the wall.

“When we reach the Omicron, that former haven of scum and villainy, you can speak with Caprian Marines who suffered with us at the hands of your government,” Akantha said icily.

The Engineering Officer’s eyes flickered but remained focused past her.

“I need engineers to assist in the repair of our ships,” Akantha explained, returning to the main thrust of what she desired.

“Good luck with that,” Tiberius Spalding scoffed.

“Were you aware that your government has transferred you to the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet and released you from your oath of service?” she asked with open curiosity.

Tiberius looked shocked. “That’s a lie!” he denied.

Akantha turned and activated her conference screen, replaying the signing of the treaty by his King. She stopped and worked the buttons until she got it to replay the section where he transferred the prisoners on the Parliamentary Power to the Confederation Fleet, and released them from their oaths of service to Capria.

“You were saying?” she said with an assessing look.

“I didn’t vote for him…that King,” Lieutenant Tiberius said forcefully.

“No,” Akantha agreed easily and even though she didn’t know the truth of it one way or the other, she was willing to take his word.

“Besides, this is all a trick anyway!” he exclaimed angrily.

Akantha shrugged. “The trick seems to be a breaking of the treaty while the ink is still wet,” she mused absently. She really hadn’t expected honorable behavior from a dishonorable individual like the kingling, in any case. “But that is no matter.” And that much was true; a wizard and another battleship was well worth the price of that cretin’s life.

“Go to Hades,” he spat.

“Look,” Akantha decided to be as honest with this man as she could, “right now our two largest ships are stranded in cold space and both are in need of repairs, I am told, before we dare risk another jump to hyperspace.”

“Not my problem. I’m a prisoner,” he retorted.

“It is your problem if we are forced to abandon ship or suffer another breakdown and are permanently stranded,” Akantha said with inexorable logic.

“So now you want me to help you fix the very ship you used to transport the Marines who killed my Engineers?” Tiberius said angrily.

“War is death and your side started it,” Akantha said evenly, “if you are looking for shame or pity, you have come to the wrong office.”

The young Engineer stared at her with silent fury.

“If you will give me your parole as a warrior and a man of honor, I will accept it and give you the run of the ship,” Akantha said. “I will also assign you to Engineering.”

The Lieutenant stared at her with disbelief. “You’re crazy, Ma’am,” he said.

“You are not the first person to say those words to my face,” Akantha said coolly, “and yet every one of the others who has done so has been bent to my will within the past few days—even your own King.”

“Don’t you know what one rogue engineer could do to a ship like yours?” he asked, sounding as if he thought she was stupid.

“Are you saying you are not a man of your word?” she asked calmly.

“I am! Which is why I’ll not give it,” he cried.

“Then I will leave you and your low opinion of us to think about the sort of poor repairs you imagine us capable of. After a few days we will see if the thought of a bad jump, where we enter hyperspace but never come out again due to a damaged main dish, sways your decision,” she sighed.

The Lieutenant stared at her, clearly horrified with the proposed scenario.

“Perhaps the thought of your fellow prisoners dying for no good reason will give you something to think about?” she continued dismissively.

The Lieutenant stood rigid, still staring at the wall.

“You may go,” she said waving him to the door.

The young Engineer hesitated before turning on his heel and stalking away. Looking at that brief hesitation, she knew that enforced inactivity combined with fear for his fellow spacers in the hands of her engineering team was going to have an effect over time. How much of an effect, and if it would be enough, was still beyond her. Worst case, she might have to take a chance and simply appoint him to Engineering even without his parole and just take her chances.

All of their previous waiting in unoccupied systems for the proper merchant traffic to snap up had cost them valuable time, and now with their being stuck out in the middle of nowhere with their hyperdrive down, was going to waste even more.

She needed to return to Gambit as soon as possible. It was an almost physical ache which gnawed at her constantly, needing to find out what had happened to her heroic protector.

She clenched her fist and thrust down the feelings welling up inside her. They needed that battleship but just as much or even more important, they needed the Phoenix, as the Cruiser Citadel was ready now, if a little banged up. While the Power Citadel was both damaged, and had been captured in the middle of a refit.

Time was too important to waste, but so were cruisers and battleships. It churned her stomach but at least they would have time, extra manpower to begin, and maybe, Men forbid, finish repairing the damage to the hull if they were immobilized for long enough.

Frowning up at the door to the Captain’s Office, she reached down and pressed a button on her desk. “Send in the next visitors as soon as they get here,” she instructed the Lancer outside her door.

****************************************************

The door whooshed open and a pair of immaculately dressed ladies stepped into her office.

“Thank you for agreeing to see us on such short notice, Captain,” said the older of the women.

As this was the first time the Hold Mistress had the chance to look at the pair, she took their appearances in and was surprised at how very similar the two ladies seemed. Clearly they were mother and daughter, but even for that bond the family resemblance was quite strong.

“No, no,” Akantha said with a smile, “it is the least I could do after taking your son from you without even the courtesy of asking your permission beforehand.”

The older of the two women frowned. “I was given to understand that Jason was taken prisoner by forces from the Central Government?” she asked hesitantly.

Akantha’s face turned grim. “We were betrayed by Parliament, and the King who enabled them,” Akantha said grimly and then gave herself a shake. “I have sent forces to do what they can but we will know nothing for some time yet,” she took a deep breath, “but that was not what I meant.”

“Oh? Please explain,” Elaina replied cautiously.

Akantha took a deep breath and then got up from her desk and walked around to the women. She observed the coiled tension of the younger one and assessed that she must have had combat training of some kind, but other than keeping a watch out of the corner of her eye, she ignored her.

Instead, when she reached the diminutive mother of the two, she bent down and took a knee. Then, reaching out reverently, she clasped both of Elaina’s hands in her own.

“What is this?” Elaina, Jason’s mother, asked with an alarmed look for the first time since entering the room.

“I agreed to take the Sword of your Son and accepted him as my Protector,” Akantha said formally. “For this, and for not asking your permission beforehand, I humbly ask your forgiveness.”’

“I’m afraid I don’t really understand, dear,” Elaina said, looking into her eyes with a helpless expression, “swords and protectors sound like martial titles, and I’m just his mother. I’m not really sure what any of it has to do with me?”

Akantha suppressed a surge of irritation and resentment of all things Starborn. “I think if you translated our current relationship into the terms of your people’s terms, the closest thing would be…marriage?” Akantha said hesitantly.

Elaina’s hands jerked in surprise and the younger woman, presumably her daughter, hissed as she inhaled sharply.

“You’ve married…Jason?” Elaina asked with undisguised surprise.

“As long as he is mine to hold, I swear that you may have lost a son but also gained a daughter,” Akantha swore fervently.

Still holding the older woman’s hands in her own, she bowed forward and brought their joined hands together until they touched her forehead.

“That son of mine is going to be in so much trouble as soon as I lay eyes on him again,” Elaina said, giving Akantha’s hands a squeeze, “but it is good to finally meet you, dear. Even if I didn’t know that I needed to until this moment.”

“You are not angered?” Akantha asked cautiously. Some mothers would have been furious at the loss of a son without the proper respect being paid beforehand, and Jason had specifically mentioned how he feared the wrath of his mother for joining with her without gaining prior consent.

“Mother,” the younger woman hissed, changing languages from Confederation Standard, to an accented version of Tracto-an.

Elaina ignored her. “Not now, dear,” she said to the younger woman and then looked down to meet Akantha’s eyes. “My heart flows over with joy, my dear.” she said, pulling back her hands and once they were free stepping forward to pull Akantha into an embrace.

“Men reborn, not more of your foolish attachment to those outside our Sisterhood,” the younger woman hissed, once again speaking in an accented form of Akantha’s native language, “and besides can’t you see the hilt of the blade strapped to her back?”

Elaina released Akantha and stepped back to give her daughter a withering look…or was it her sister? Akantha was uncertain.

“It’s not polite to speak in a language your new ‘Sister’ cannot understand, Ishtaraaa, dear,” Elaina said with disapproval in her voice.

Akantha glanced between the other two women suspiciously. “If you prefer, we can switch; Confederation Standard is a second language only recently learned, and I am still much more comfortable in this, my native tongue,” Akantha said cautiously.

The two women froze, moving only their heads around to look at her. Akantha offered a strained smile at their odd reaction and seeing their bodies tense, unconsciously dropped into a ready stance of her own.

“Who are you?” snapped the younger woman.

Taking a step back her new mother-by-law made the sign of a triangle on her breast.

“I am Adonia Akantha Zosime of Tracto,” she said proudly and then mimicked the sign made by her new mother, “Hold Mistress of Messene, Landbride of Argos and Sword-Bearer to Jason Montagne.”

Eyes widening, Elaina then made another sign by interlocking her fingers in a specific pattern. To anyone not aware of the hidden meaning—say, a man of Tracto, or any of the Starborn—it looked like she had simply clasped her hands together…but to Akantha the meaning was clear—and more than a little surprising given the circumstances.

“Greetings, Priestess,” Akantha inclined her head fractionally as her mind raced with the implications of this new information. Taking a careful step back in case the younger woman—who looked more tightly wound than a loaded catapult—attacked, reproduced the gesture to show she was of similar status.

Akantha was temporarily taken aback by the display. All Hold Mistresses were initiated into the ancient secrets of Tracto and made Priestesses. That the younger woman seemed unaware of this was merely the latest surprise to be unleashed in this encounter.

“Heretic,” Ishtaraaa’s face twisted as she reached for something in the folds of her clothing.

“Stop!” Elaina lifted a hand without even looking to see what her sister/daughter was doing and the younger woman froze, her face a rictus of hate.

Akantha also stilled, her own blade half drawn.

“I have welcomed you into my home and offered you nothing but honor. What is the meaning of this?!” Akantha demanded angrily. Their status as Priestesses of Men, while a shocking revelation in itself, actually fueled her anger at such outrageous behavior since no Priestess of Tracto would behave in such a fashion toward another.

“Mother, she’s a blaspheming heretic and must be slain!” Ishtaraaa screamed.

“By the Code, I’ll rip out your womb and use your guts for garters,” Akantha snarled. “Then I’ll kill your daughters—or raise them as my own—and you’ll be barren and alone until the day of rebirth!” she completed drawing Bandersnatch and then positioned it between herself and the younger woman.

“I said hold, and I meant it, Ishtaraaa,” Jason’s mother snapped before turning back to Akantha, “lower your sword and let’s discuss this like women. We are all Priestesses here!”

Akantha lowered the tip of her sword fractionally, but in the face of the naked hatred on the face of Ishtaraaa, refused to relax her guard.

“You say you follow the Code of Men?” Elaina asked severely.

Not willing to take her eyes off the mad dog woman, Ishtaraaa, Akantha nodded firmly.

“Then what is your ultimate mother line and why have I seen none of your line models before? You are a type unknown to MEN and thus anathema to all of womankind!” Ishtaraaa spat, and then glared at her mother, “can’t you see she’s lying, Mother-Sister?”

“I am of the line of Morticius, she who was taken from her sisters and set apart by MEN using a rib plucked from King Adamus, so that she and her daughters after her could replace the failed King lines and become the first flesh mothers of a warrior race. Our sign is TWO,” Akantha declared proudly, and just as proudly thrust her hand in the air and displayed her first and second fingers for emphasis, “our holy duty is the preservation of TWO; we are Tracto-ans.”

“Man-lovers!” Ishtaraaa cursed, pulling her hands free of her clothing. Akantha tensed but the other woman’s hands were empty and leveling a finger at the Hold Mistress, “And don’t try to deny it; you and your entire line are steeped in unnatural practices and corruption!”

“Who are you to accuse a High Priestess and Semi-Autonomous Servant to Men of being steeped in Corruption?” Akantha demanded, invoking the ancient titles passed down from Priestess to Priestess upon induction to their holy order, doing her best to control her temper as her vision went red from insult after insult. Her time among the stars had opened her eyes to the true meaning of at least some of those words, and she used that knowledge to counter the insults hurled her way by these women, “Have your Pedagogues fallen so low that they no longer teach their daughters to memorize the Holy Code exceptions list?”

“We are the Sisters of Three,” Elaina said holding up three fingers and speaking in a formal voice. “Our sign is Three. In addition to maintaining our Tract until the day of rebirth and reassembly, our Society has been charged with the preservation of the One. Our duty is to ensure the One Tract is never lost to us, or descends into code corruption and is used against the hand that forged it: Men.”

Akantha’s eyes closed as she processed this new information. “Your lines were cast from our gardens long ago, for endangering the holy god-shards,” she said flatly, recalling bits of the ancient histories which she had studied as a young girl “and now I see why.”

“Men can never be reformatted as long as timorous old women cower in their corners and refuse to even attempt a reassembly,” Ishtaraaa said scornfully.

“Fortunately, Men—in his wisdom—placed that Holy Task within our hands and not yours, or only the data-god knows what would have happened by now,” Akantha mocked.

“Only those Fragments which are located on your Planet were ever under your jurisdiction,” Ishtaraaa sneered. “And that only so long as the Fragments themselves do not accede to our requests—requests which they never heard because you refused us access!”

“And for good reason!” Akantha shot back.

“It’s been three hundred years,” Ishtaraaa screamed, “there are those who refused to cower in the dark any longer.”

“Sisters,” Elaina said soothingly, “calm yourselves. There are protocols for cross-tract encounters, and really the only reason we had such troubles in the past was not because of wrongheaded thinking. It was quite simply because the Sisters of Three and the Women of Two are too much alike. After all, while the men of Two have always been as they are, the Women of Two were once of Three…before they were genetically modified.”

“There are Holy Protocols,” Akantha grudged as she recalled a handful of the passages which had clearly been put forth in the event of this situation’s ilk.

“See? We need not fight,” Elaina said, switching back to the common tongue.

“Did you know your ‘husband’ was raised as an infidel?” Ishtaraaa smiled sweetly.

“Males in my culture are often kept unaware of the fullness of their true origins,” Akantha replied with a smile of her own, “as the Shepherdesses of Tracto, it is within our discretion and we have found that, historically, a man who knows too much can cause more problems than he solves.”

Ishtaraaa’s expression twisted. “I call upon my sister to assist us with an inter-tract duty,” Ishtaraaa said bitingly.

“Child,” Elaina said warningly.

“But Mother-Progenitor, it is her ‘holy duty’,” she smirked. “Honestly, who actually talks that way?” she shook her head, as if saddened by Akantha’s primitive rearing.

The Hold Mistress’s ears burned. “What is the task?” Akantha asked, and then added, “as Three doesn’t seem to be able to manage its own affairs.”

Ishtaraaa turned red. “I have a kill order, issued by our Paragon,” she said with almost gleeful satisfaction, “which I fully intend to carry out, but assistance in the deed could be useful.”

Akantha just stared at her with narrowed eyes. She knew when someone was trying to play and outmaneuver her, and unfortunately it appeared that these women were slightly better versed in these archaic protocols—which was a situation she would need to remedy at the earliest possible convenience.

“Don’t you want to know?” Ishtaraaa asked playfully.

“I do not condone this and I will not be party to the killing of my own son,” Elaina cut in angrily.

“You would become a brother killer?” Akantha asked, thoroughly shocked at the degenerate nature of these, the apparent Starborn followers of Men.

“He is not my brother! He simply came from the same womb as my Mother-Progenitor,” Ishtaraaa all but shrieked. “I only have Sisters!”

Akantha shook her head in disgusted negation. “On what grounds? I swear that if you try to execute one of our Protectors while he is acting in defense of the Holy Planet and the preservation of the Two Line, then your Paragon will not remain one for very much longer,” Akantha said flatly. “And afterwards you, personally, will be tried and executed for a Brother killer…but sentence will only be carried out after being tossed to the warriors as a heretic, for them to do with as they may.”

“Why, you two-faced, Man-lover!” Ishtaraaa actually did shriek this time.

“Ishtaraaa, leave,” Jason’s mother snapped. Ishtaraaa made to protest but Akantha raised her sword, prompting the other woman to storm out of the room.

“I’m sorry about that,” Elaina said as soon as Ishtaraaa was out the door, “her views are extreme and while I do not agree with and cannot support them, the orders she carries are valid.”

“A woman with such weak familial bonds has no place on my world,” Akantha said damningly. “And assuming he lives, I will not tolerate his murder at the hands of the Sisters of Three—whether the order is valid or not!”

“As a mother it does my heart good to hear that,” Elaina said with a sigh.

“If you have no other business to bring up, I believe we have covered everything I wanted to go into,” Akantha said coldly, wishing at that moment for nothing more than to bury herself in the ancient codices of Tracto to better arm herself the next time she would confront these outside Priestesses.

Elaina looked hurt but Akantha was not in the mood. It seemed that no matter which ones she encountered, every single member on all sides of his family wanted to kill her Jason Montagne. Well, she was having none of it, and if making that clear hurt her new mother’s feeling then so be it. Elaina should have raised a daughter better than to desire fratricide and be so viciously joyful at the thought of killing her own brother.

Akantha shook her head in disbelief. They dare call me corrupt?! she seethed.

She idly wondered if Ishtaraaa would give her guards an excuse to kill her, and then almost inevitably her thoughts turned to her lost Protector.

A man was known by the strength of his enemies, but even so, what kind of Daughters would she be bringing into this world by giving them such a father—assuming, as always, that he would survive to return to her?

She honestly did not know why the thought of never seeing him again made her heart twist so painfully inside her chest.

Only time would tell on that account, but in the interim she had Citadels to repair and scheming relatives to confound. If there was one thing she could say about life among the stars, it was that things were never boring.

She honestly could not wait to see what happened next.

The End